London Bridge
by pale-jonquil
Summary: He'd sooner die than admit it, but England's self-esteem is a lot like the song "London Bridge": It falls down, and then is built back up, only to fall again. The British people and America are determined to show him he's loved, even if he can't understand why they'd feel that way about him in the first place. Eventual USUK, but England-centric.
1. Chapter 1

One day, I am going to write an original Hetalia fic. But until then, have another de-anon from the kinkmeme! :')

Original prompt: _After World War Two (and after being pretty much shipped by good ol' Churchill) America decides it's time to let England know how he feels about him. It's a big mistake, because England turns him down. America keeps trying, England keeps refusing, but it's not because he outright doesn't like America - it's because every time America confesses it sounds like a joke, and part of England doesn't believe America because he doesn't think he's lovable. Happy ending not required, but it would be nice. Bonus 1: America's innocent attempts to tell England how he feels turn into complete cracky disasters. Appearances of France trying to fix everything but just making it worse optional. Bonus 2: Not too much angst. 'Cause low self esteem is angsty enough!_

I think I failed in several aspects of this prompt (I'm so sorry, OP), and I blame it not only on lack of writing skills, but also...it was my first Hetalia fic? There were a lot of first-timer mistakes I made, and I've developed the characters and their relationships in my head (and in other fics) a lot since then. But you can't change the past, no matter what the great Jay Gatsby says, so here y'all go. Please enjoy! : )

* * *

**London Bridge  
**

.

"_Son of Earth!  
I know thee, and the powers which give thee power;  
I know thee for a man of many thoughts,  
And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both,  
Fatal and fated in thy sufferings."  
— Lord Byron, Manfred_

._  
_

Chapter One

Many people have claimed to love England throughout his existence. Though bewildered _(because, love, London Bridge is falling down, falling down)_, he has believed every single one of them.

How could he not?

He has seen declarations of love boldly announced before God and everyone through the twists and turns of thick, grand brushstrokes, but just as powerful as these brushstrokes have been the soft and humble whisperings of devotion from the faintest of pencil etchings.

Brushstroke: Down, down, down into that infernal Valley of Death rode the noble Light Brigade, riding to honor the oath they had sworn so as to protect their beloved England. Down, down, down they rode against all reason (funny, England loved to boast of how full to the brim his people were with good, old-fashioned common sense), fulfilling orders they knew were preposterous, for no other reason than the generals were finally cashing in the cheques these men further down, down, down the military ladder had written.

England raged when he read that not a single one of them had questioned the order.

_Am I worth the freely given lives of those men? Idiots. Bloody brave idiots, the lot of them. Flashed all their sabres bare, but iron and steel will bend and bow, bend and bow._

* * *

Etching: When he first finished reading _Pride and Prejudice_, he could not rest until he discovered who the author was. "By a Lady," indeed. That would simply not suffice.

When he finally met her, a Miss Austen from Hampshire, he was excessively charmed, for very rarely does a nation feel as though they have met a kindred spirit in a human.

"Pray," he exclaims one afternoon over tea, "do not tell me the trials and tribulations of the Bennet family are the only revelations we are to have from that wonderful imagination of yours?"

Her lips quiver dangerously upward behind the safety of her tea cup.

"In truth, I find myself confused, sir. Perhaps you are not half as in love with _Pride and Prejudice_ as you would have me believe."

For the first time in his life, England nearly chokes on his tea; that was the last thing he _ever_ wanted her to think.

"The title page _clearly_ states that the Lady who wrote it is also the perpetrator behind the tedious plot devices and lackluster humor of _Sense and Sensibility_."

She arches an eyebrow. "Do you mean to slight me, sir, by implying you did not read the title page in its entirety? _Most_ ungracious of you, to be sure."

Her eyes are sparkling with merriment, and England, meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow, realizes she's teasing him.

"_Sense and Sensibility_, by the by," he archly says, setting his empty tea cup on the table, "I finished in two nights. But what I mean to say, my dear, is that surely these are not the _only_ two novels you are planning to make a gift of to the world?"

She looks at him keenly for a moment, and he feels his face turning pink under her unwavering gaze. It's a thoughtful gaze, sharp and fearless. When she looks at you, she seems to see you for what you truly are — and she is not one to hold anything back, this one.

After a time, she speaks, and England sighs in relief.

"There are indeed other stories and other characters — some like family to me — that I simply cannot cast off from my brain or, unfortunately for the literate in possession of good taste, my pen. I have only ever shared these blasphemes to the English language with my family until now."

"Until now?"

"Yes," she says, and rises from the sofa. "Perhaps you would like to see one of my earliest stories? It is still a work in progress, however. I do not expect a diamond to be found once the polishing is complete, but I will heartily endeavor to be proud of the slightly less grotesque specimen left once I have made my final alterations to it."

The work in progress is simply titled _Susan_. He reads the words on the pages hungrily, devours them, wants to ask for a second or third helping, but he reminds himself that he is a gentleman now (though 'twasn't always so) and he has no wish to appear vulgar ('twasn't always so).

Instead, he points to one paragraph in particular.

"This exchange between the hero and heroine seems…forgive me, but it seems the slightest bit out of place, out of character."

She leans over his shoulder to read the words in question: _Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians._

"That!" she cries with a small giggle. "No, sir, that shall stay, incongruous though it may seem."

She sobers quickly, and continues: "You see, I have heard a ghastly rumor that the Prince Regent is intending me to dedicate my forthcoming novel to him." She grimaces slightly. "This excerpt seems a far better way for me to communicate my esteem of my country than to condone his…rather _unseemly_ behavior."

He will vividly remember this conversation for the rest of his life. He will, at any given moment, be able to recall and re-weave the finest details as though it were parallel in scope to Agincourt, Waterloo, the Marne.

(In a way, it is.)

_Such a small, sweet gesture…but am I worth it? I was not always a gentleman. In truth I fear I shall never be one. Set a man to watch all night, my fair Lady._

* * *

He has allowed a confession of love toward him to break his heart.

He was present when his dear, dear Bess was born. He held the babe in his arms and gingerly passed his fingers over her tiny head, her sticky hair.

Years later he finds himself tenderly passing his fingers over that same ruddy hair, as baby-fine as it was the day she was born, as he sits with her on her simple cot in the Tower. While he reminisces on the day she was born, she is contemplating her death.

"'Tis not true!" she bitterly sobs, staining the thigh of his breeches with her hot tears. "I would never plot against my own sister! I do not agree with her marrying a Spaniard, and I certainly do not agree with her regarding our Lord and Savior, but I know my place."

"Your place?" he murmurs — because even the mousiest voice will echo off the walls of the Tower with a terrifying foreboding.

"Yes, as a sister and a princess of England. I have always been loyal to England, and to be loyal to England is to be loyal to the queen."

She hoists herself up onto her elbows and looks up at him. Her face is blotchy, covered with indentions from the wrinkles of his breeches, and her unpinned hair is messy and wild about hour shoulders.

"Do you truly believe this rebellion shall change anything?" She doesn't allow him time for an answer he doesn't have, and continues: "If Almighty God sees fit to grant these rebels their wish, then I swear to you, I shall make this country great. I shall _live_ and _breathe_ and _die_ for this country, as valiantly as any man."

She drops her head back to his lap and sighs deeply.

"But…I would do so with the heaviest heart, for my dear sister's sake. She was my constant companion in my girlhood, and now — now I do not know what to think."

England, who has never gotten along with his own siblings, leans back against the stone wall and tries to swallow the lump in his throat. He knows what it is for destiny to drive siblings apart, just as he knows love of him would negate every whispered secret, every braided tress, every shared foundation between the sisters.

She eventually stops crying and drifts off into a fitful slumber, but he continues to stroke her hair. He wants to calm himself now.

_Truly, I have been made great, but…at what cost? Families, whether high born or low, are torn asunder in my name. Family is said to be the greatest foundation of all, but what does one do when even bricks and mortar will not stay?_

* * *

If his heart has been broken due to his people's love of him, his heart has also lovingly been stitched and glued back together by that same love. Only his people's devotion has ever made his heart swell and soar so incandescently. They have a way of reminding him to keep calm and carry on.

Churchill's voice is grave, gravelly, ghostly.

"…the British airmen who, undaunted by odds, unwearied in their constant challenge and mortal danger, are turning the tide of the World War by their prowess and by their devotion. Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few."

He stops and looks up from his handwritten notes. He is holding them so tightly it is more like a clutch — a lion's powerful and final bone-shattering crunch.

"What do you think?"

"I think," England says, his eyes welling with unabashed tears, "it's perfect."

_It's perfect, as they were, and we've been given precious more time, but I wasn't worth this. Never this. Silver and gold will be stolen away, and Germany — the blackguard, the bastard — has stolen some of my most precious jewels from me. He'd best prepare his beaches, his landing grounds, his fields and his streets, his hills…_

* * *

He believes his people when they reveal their love of country. Some will loudly proclaim it without even being asked, still others reveal it slowly as though peeling away at an onion. He can't explain the connection he has with his people, but it is there nonetheless and it courses through his veins like the Thames itself. Since his — and their — birth, he has loved them and they have loved him. It is as undeniable as it is indescribable.

But England's dirty little secret is that he does not always feel worthy of his people, this love and devotion they have for him. He certainly hasn't always done right by them. It's well known that during his years on the _Sundance_, on the roiling seven seas, he had a reputation for demanding, taking love and devotion from the unwilling, the frightened.

"You will love me soon enough," he once drawled down to Spain, even as he crushed that nation's face beneath the weight of a muddied boot. "You only just _think_ you hate me now, love."

But he has grown and matured since then, and not without the help of his people, he's sure. And the more he's around in this crazy world, the more he sees how very _little_ he is and how very _much_ his people are.

But his wonderful people continue to love him, believe in him, do what they can for him.

_They keep coming back like a child — a simple, foolish child, though I have neglected them, refused them, shattered them, denied them, disowned them, beat them. London Bridge is falling down, after all. And yet they keep coming back. I cannot even pretend to know what they're thinking, the idiots. I've heard it said the very definition of stupidity is to continue doing the same things repeatedly, believing you'll see different results. But praise God they keep coming back. I pray they're always so unrepentantly foolish._

So England knows — he _knows, _damn it — what it is to be loved, to be told that you are loved, to be shown that you are loved. He knows what this feeling is like and cherishes it, brings it forth from the heart-shaped alcove in his chest when times are trying.

But Arthur Kirkland? That man (_suppose the man should fall asleep, fall asleep?_) knows nothing of love.

.

**Author's notes (please feel free to skip):**

*"Valley of Death" and "Flash'd all their sabres bare" from Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade"

*Jane Austennn! FUN FACT: The Prince Regent, who would soon become George IV, was a fan of Austen and asked her to dedicate "Emma" to him. But the Prince Regent "asking" you to do something was more like a nicer way of him demanding it. Miss Austen was not amused because she was not his biggest fan, but she was still forced to do it anyway. The line England points out is from "Northanger Abbey," and I've always thought it was a strange line – you could take those lines out and the meaning behind Henry's speech _(ooh Mr. Tilney oooh)_ wouldn't change at all. Austen wasn't heavy-handed about politics in her novels. Whenever she would mention something it was generally very subtle, so that patriotic line is a little disjointing for me personally, but eh, who knows. Also, the line "I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow" is from _Pride and Prejudice._

*Agincourt, Waterloo, and the Marne were all famous battles that the English either won decisively on their own (Agincourt) or with support from other countries (Waterloo, the Marne).

*Queen Elizabeth I, before she was queen, was imprisoned in the Tower when she was about 21 years old due to Wyatt's Rebellion. Basically, some noblemen were unhappy with Elizabeth's (Catholic) sister Mary wanting to marry (Catholic) Philip II of Spain. Mary's overthrow and Elizabeth's promotion to queen were never outright stated as aims but they were implied. The men approached Elizabeth about the rebellion but she always swore she never plotted with them. She was imprisoned and put on trial, and was probably very much afraid for her life. Mary spared her sister because some of Elizabeth's supporters at court convinced Mary that there wasn't enough evidence against her. Elizabeth's life was spared, but she was soon placed under house arrest. The people's support of Protestant Elizabeth was a constant thorn in the side of Mary's reign.

*The speech Churchill is reading to England was delivered after the Battle of Britain. England's _"He'd best prepare his beaches, his landing grounds, his fields and his streets, his hills…" _is a reference to an earlier speech by Churchill (made during the Battle of France).

*The _Sundance._ Ha, I don't even know, you guys. Just thought it'd be a cool name for a ship. : )


	2. Chapter 2

**London Bridge  
**

.**  
**

Chapter Two

Arthur has feelings (despite what Francis says) and needs (despite what former conquerors insisted) and wants (despite what Arthur himself would have others believe). He can't help but desperately wonder, sometimes.

He desperately wondered, as a child, where his mother had gone off to, and who this strange man suddenly standing before him was — this smelly man with the goofy smile and the very large sword. The two little boys clinging to his legs were calling him _Grandpa._ Should he refer to him as _Grandpa_ as well?

The stranger does not introduce himself. He merely plants his hands on his hips and leans down to ask Arthur: "Do you know you have a big pile of ugly rocks taking up space by your home?"

"Mother says they're very important and shouldn't ever be moved."

The stranger's thumb flicks over the hilt of his very large sword.

"Come with me, boy," he says, almost as if he were tired. He doesn't look tired, though. He only looks strong. "What else does Mother say?"

Arthur, a solemn child, has a ready answer — _She tells me about the fairies and the unicorns and the hobbits and how my brothers and I must always, always stick together _— but it dies on his chapped lips as he watches the stranger scoop the two little boys up in his arms and carry them away.

Arthur automatically raises his thin arms into the air, but soon realizes there is no room for him in the stranger's arms.

"You coming?" the stranger asks, his voice rough, and though he himself does not turn around, the two little boys keep their eyes on Arthur, assessing him, waiting for his reaction, as though they were an extension of this man they call _Grandpa._

Yes, Arthur wants to come along — he doesn't know who these people are or where they're all going, but he's never, _ever_ been left completely alone before — only there is no one to carry him. How is he going to get to wherever it is they are going?

It's the first time he can remember using his legs.

While he is walking — or following, rather — he tries to recall what it feels like when his mother carries him in her arms, and it scares him that he is having trouble remembering this feeling. And he doesn't want to leave his brothers behind, but he imagines that some stranger has come to them (and unknowingly changed their lives) as well. Perhaps all these tall strangers know each other and will have a gathering later, and then he and his brothers can look for their mother together — but of course Arthur knows she will already be there waiting for them, and she'll tell them she was ever so worried about them, won't she?

(The eyes of the two little boys in the stranger's arms never take their eyes off him.)

* * *

Later, he will use his legs to run. He is still young and doesn't really know how large his domain is, but even if he was aware he still would run. He runs, runs anywhere so long as it is _away_ and not _to_, the sun blistering his skin and his lungs struggling against they know not what.

He runs until he stumbles upon a tall heap of stones, all organized against each other with a militaristic precision. These are not the open, inviting stones of Stonehenge — no, these are something entirely different. These stones are a boundary. These stones (_it will stand for evermore, evermore_) are a trapping.

He rails violently against Hadrian and his abominable wall, bloodying his knuckles as red as poor Boudica's hair. He has long since stopped looking for his mother, stopped expecting her to walk around every corner, pass through every door. Now he is hunting, prowling for freedom — a freedom he knows is waiting only beyond this contemptible, confounding wall.

As he curses, he vows to become strong, stronger, the strongest.

* * *

He desperately wondered if it were thunder or simply more bombs going off in the distance.

He laughs, but only a little, because so many things sound like destruction now.

Not even _destruction,_ he muses, just a booming repetition of _destroy, destroy, destroy._ He can only bring himself to care at the moment out of a morbid curiosity because so many of his own men have already perished. If this is another attack from the Germans, what can they possibly be aiming at? There is almost no one left to fight, and if Ludwig literally wants to take the whole world down with him…

_Well, I say_.

What sort of king makes a disemboweled land his court? Will his ghost-subjects throw their gas masks into the air at the stroke of midnight and down the nearest bottle of mustard-flavored spirits? No need to be stingy, loves, there's enough to go around for everyone —

"And the next round's on me!" he suddenly shouts, and laughs again — but only a little. _Destroy, destroy, destroy._

It is October of 1916 and Arthur is _waiting_ — waiting for the end of the Somme. And you can only anxiously await your downfall in the trenches (_build it up with mud and clay, mud and clay_) for so long before your legs finally give out and your mind starts to wander.

He is tired and hungry and utterly bored. (Or use a prettier word, say _numb. _Go ahead, say it, he'll wait. It's a war of attrition, and he's got all week.) He can only imagine what his men are going through. Every centimeter they gain costs the lives of two men. There are bodies — or what once were bodies — _everywhere,_ inside the trenches and out, and Arthur wonders what the field looked like before they dug it up and littered it with his best and his brightest young men.

Amendment: He can only imagine what the few _who are still alive_ are going through.

But that isn't entirely true, either. With this war he's beginning to realize, as he never has with any other, the feeling of knowing the dead as intimately as he knows the soon-to-die.

With a grunt he closes his eyes, leans against the wall (always a bloody wall, isn't there?) of the trench, and readjusts his helmet. If he and Ludwig are going to continue wearing each other down hour by hour, minute by bleeding minute, then it's a good thing his girls back home are prettier, his tea is stronger, his chocolates are sweeter, his music is more lively, his —

There is suddenly a sound like a thud beside him, and then the crinkle-crunching of rocks and cigarette packaging beneath boots. He jolts, brings up his gun, and levels it at Belgium's cute little nose, right between her freckles.

A long, too-long moment during which neither of them move, neither of them breathe.

Then: "What the goddamned _fuck?"_ he shrieks.

He finally remembers to lower his gun. _Goodness, how rude of me, ever so sorry, where are my manners?_

"Marie, what are you — _you_ _idiot,_ are you daft? I cannot _believe_ — "

"Here," she says, thrusting something at him. "Take it. It's not much, but take it."

He blinks and stares blankly at the package. Later, when he opens it, he will discover it's a tiny tin of waterzooi. It's a wee bit watery but there's meat in it, _real_ chunks of meat, and it's food he can actually enjoy for once — he doesn't have to worry about it spoiling and making him sick because the weather is so frigid.

With a grunt, she slings a heavy bag over her shoulder.

_Everyone keeps grunting,_ he thinks. _It's making us all sound so uncivilized._

"I'm off," she simply says, giving him a jaunty wave of her hand. "Gotta deliver the rest of the goods to the boys. Hope they don't mind a little scandal."

She winks and preens a little in her frayed blue (male) uniform. It's the uniform from two years ago. From Liège. From when no one thought she had any fight in her _(take a key and lock her up, lock her up)_ and she ended up buying him and Francis more time than they could have ever hoped for.

"You vain little thing," he says, grinning, and it surprises him a little how easy it is to smile after everything he's seen. "What, too good to get your best dress all muddied up, eh?"

"No, but when this is all over, will you dance with me?"

He is blushing, but takes comfort in the fact she probably can't see it behind all the dirt caked on his face. His eyebrows fly up in surprise and his eyes widen when she gently cups his cheek.

"Thank you for not sitting by and letting Ludwig do as he pleases with the world. Thank you for defending me, for honoring 1839." Her voice drops to a whisper. "Do you remember how we danced that night? Let's dance like that again when this is all over."

She smiles softly and lingers beside him there for a moment, despite the smell on both of them — the stench of smoke and blood and bile and hate.

And then she's off. He watches her leave, tries to burn her receding figure into his memory — it's been so long since he or any of the other soldiers have seen a pretty woman, or real food, or real hope (_bricks and mortar will not stay, my fair lady_). When this memory begins to fade, he'll imagine instead what the small of her back would feel like under his palm as they dance.

(He won't dance when this is all over. She will, but he won't. He will only watch her dance from afar, much like that night in 1839. He didn't dance that night, either. He was too busy lamenting the wine stains on his gloves.)

.

**Author's notes (please feel free to skip):**

*England's mother in this story is Mama Britannia

*Hadrian's Wall was a barrier constructed by the Romans not only to mark the boundary of their northernmost territory (Britannia), but also to keep the Caledonians (Scots) at bay. They later built the less well-known Antonine Wall even _further_north because they wanted to take Scottish land, but they were ultimately unable to conquer the Scots (FREEDOM!) and that wall was abandoned after only 20 years. For reference, Stonehenge is located in the south of England; Hadrian's Wall is much further north.

*Boudica was a queen of a British tribe called the Iceni. Basically, she tried to revolt against the Romans. She did pretty well in the beginning – burning London to the ground and killing lots and lots of people, and even Emperor Nero was pretty scared at first, but the Romans ending up squashing the rebellion and staying in Britain.

*Thankfully for England, the Battle of the Somme would finally end one month later.

*The 1839 Treaty of London said Belgium was to be neutral. All the signers of the treaty – including Britain – promised to defend Belgium if one of the other signers violated the terms of the treaty. But Germany's war plan was to fight Russia on one side and France on the other. To get to France they had to go through Belgium, breaking the treaty. One of Germany's tactical failures of the war was assuming Britain would remain neutral, but they honored the Treaty (and weren't about to lose their trade with Belgium's sea ports, either) and declared war. German troops slaughtered many Belgian civilians and devastated their land – in fact, it's known as the _Rape _of Belgium. But Belgium fought back for 10 days and gave the Germans something to worry about at Liege. They fought as long and hard as they could and bought France and Britain valuable time to prepare for the Battle of the Marne. So, yeah. And, she's wearing pants, something that wouldn't readily be accepted by society until the '20s. Her and England are my OTP, but I only realized it after I first wrote this story. XD Even before EngBel took up permanent residence in my heart, I always had this headcanon that he carried a torch for her, or at the very least admired and respected her and was good friends with her. But this story is still USUK, and she's going to serve a higher purpose. :)a

*Waterzooi seems to be (Wiki never lies, right? RIGHT?) a creamier Belgian version of chicken noodle soup. I hope I get to try it one day! Om nom nom.


	3. Chapter 3

**London Bridge**

.**  
**

Chapter Three

He desperately wonders why what began with America also ended with America.

He dreamed of Alfred once, before he found the child; Arthur will never admit that when they finally met it was as if he had dreamed Alfred into life.

He dreamed he was walking through a wheat field, the palms of his calloused hands gently caressing the tips of those golden pennants. He is dreaming, but this fluidity, this calm — it's not unlike being under water. Here there are no invaders, no conquerors, no sibling skirmishes. The deeper into the dream he sinks, the less desire he has to come up for air. To wake is to meet his usual morning headache and sour breath.

But, _oh,_ the dream! A small child, light and laughing with a smile that glowed celestial rosy red, love's proper hue. He holds his pudgy arms out wide and happily exclaims _you're here!_

Arthur's subconscious taps him on the shoulder, reminds him several people have spoken these same words to him ("I belong _there_ and you are _here_." "You still here, boy?" "_You're_ here.") but never like this child — this dream child who decides, quite all on his own, that he will not be so easily overshadowed by Arthur's past — this dream child who whispers _I missed you._

That's the moment Arthur feels his heart tumbling, unraveling in his chest like a spool of thread. There is the curious sensation of falling, and the dream is almost ruined — almost.

He wakes with the usual headache and sour breath. But the dream is something to hold on to, to cling to, much as he clings to his limp pillow as the _Sundance_ rocks in the ocean waves and the waves rock in his stomach.

Later, while shaving, he recalls the excitable poet back home who has been dazzling the court with tales from the poem he is writing. The hero, Prince Arthur, falls in love with the beautiful Gloriana after dreaming of her, but his attempts to find her in the real world are hindered by many quests.

Arthur nicks himself and half-heartedly resolves not invest too much of himself into the dream.

* * *

But the crew notices a change in him — he is not nearly as petulant this morning as he has been the last two months.

"'Member that time," an old sailor on deck asks, stroking his scraggly beard, "we sunk that fleet of ships off the coast of Turkey and was plunderin' the city for weeks?"

His young colleague does not, in general, like to talk, or think, or breathe while Admiral Kirkland is making his morning inspections, but nevertheless whispers: "What of it?"

"I just like thinkin' 'bout it sometimes is all." The older sailor grins. "That was a good day fer us, and a _very_ good day fer the admiral. He had more fun fightin' than any o' _us,_ I'm sure, though to me it looked more like he was just doin' some good old-fashioned murderin'."

The old sailor sits down on a crate and rubs his hands together. "And then the merrymakin' afterwards! Ever see a man drink so much, curse so much, or scare the prisoners just fer the fun of it all? Not I." He chuckles and shakes his head, clearly impressed. "Not I."

"He's a brute, alright, and as dangerous as the day is long, though in truth I'd rather be serving him as the lowest underling than so much as even look at him wrong. They don't call him the Dreadnought for nothing."

The young sailor pauses, hesitant, and glances around to make sure they're alone.

"Some say he even practices _black magic,"_ he whispers.

"Oh, aye, aye," the old sailor nonchalantly murmurs, nodding his head. That's actually the _least_ worrisome rumor he's heard about the admiral.

"But the admiral be in such a _mood_ lately," he continues, squinting up at the sky, "what with the queen tellin' him to get his act together, more genteel like. It's as though he be seein' our trip to the Americas as a punishment instead of a reward, when surely he of all men knows there be more gold there to be dug up than in China!"

He strokes his scraggly beard again, a far-off look in his eyes.

"But upon the whole, today I reckon he looks a little more good-humored, like, so I was wonderin' if he be thinkin' 'bout that time with the Turks as well."

* * *

Admiral Kirkland's first impression of North America is expressed through a weary sigh ("Yes, yes, Richard — _trees._ What of them?") which soon gives way to an absolute inability to breathe, his breath taken before the natural majesty of giant, gentle sequoias.

Indeed, the feared Dreadnought himself is at a loss for words upon discovering even _he_ can be humbled. It is not only the New World, but a new world entirely — a place to start over, to revision his past and boldly pen his future.

(Such joy ambition finds.)

* * *

He is washing clothes in the Chowan River when the child from his dreams, of his dreams, at whose sight all the stars hide their diminished heads, first catches the corner of his eye.

It is a beginning.

* * *

For every beginning, there is also an ending: Arthur must return home for supplies, and his Faerie Queene is awaiting good news.

Ending: Roanoke is lost and the dream child has nightmares.

Ending: He must return home once again to settle some affairs and, _cor blimey, who the hell does this Spanish chuffer think he is?_

Arthur doesn't sleep during the return to the Americas. Consequently, he doesn't dream.

He lays awake at night, anxious. The loss of Roanoke was a blow to his pride and he passionately wants to stay at sea. At sea, people fear him, and if they don't quite respect him he will make sure they do in time. (Fear and respect are not the love he still, after all these years and after all his actions, silently yearns for, but they are so, _so_ similar he can't remember there was ever a difference in the first place.)

He has never personally owned a colony, and he certainly doesn't know what to do with children except use them for ransom. The child embarrasses Arthur because the boy expects too much of him, and Arthur would rather die than give a mere scrap of a child the leeway to judge him.

When the _Sundance_ finally puts down anchor, he takes a long, longing look out to sea. He is tired, broke (not broken, mind — that's Spain), did not have a single dream during the entire voyage. He woke up every morning with a headache and sour breath. For solitude sometimes is best society…

…and short retirement urges sweet return. The child rushes up to him without the slightest hesitation and clings to his legs.

"You're here!"

And then Arthur feels what he felt in his dream, but not — his heart isn't unraveling so much as it is overflowing. Abashed the devil stood, and felt how awful goodness is. True, he's falling, and he's falling _hard,_ but it's the pleasantest feeling he's ever known, and he feels positively giddy from the rush of it.

He goes to his knees and gathers the child in his arms, but who is clinging to whom? No matter — it is a beginning. Live while ye may, yet happy pair.

* * *

The sting of Roanoke eventually fades; this time they will put all their hopes for the (new) New World into the land called Virginia. The child will be named Alfred, for he shall be Great — out of one man a race innumerable.

And Arthur feels he shall finally cleanse his put upon past, correct the mistakes others have made against him — for them there will be no new beginnings, only the swift correction of the strong, stronger, the strongest.

* * *

Sometimes he and Alfred bathe together in the Chesapeake — Alfred is stubborn and would refuse to wash entirely if he did not see his guardian doing so. And, his guardian supposes, soap beards are an adequate enough reward for following directions.

"We look ridiculous," he lightly scolds, but Alfred can tell Arthur is enjoying himself, though it doesn't show on his face. Still, Alfred knows, and that is enough.

* * *

There is a wheat field near their home. Arthur likes to lie in the field and watch the sunset, for it reminds him of the sea, the limitless, boundless sky melting into ripples of blue and purple.

He breathes deeply, contentedly, and listens dreamily as Alfred chases fireflies nearby.

The child comes crawling atop his chest, holding out cupped hands — he's made Arthur a gift of a captured firefly. It flies off, and Alfred grins and leans down to bump his nose against Arthur's. He runs off giggling, and Arthur watches him go with a lopsided smile on his face, bemused yet utterly charmed.

* * *

When they retire that night, Arthur is at the top of the stairs before he realizes he's left Alfred at the landing — he's still rather new to this whole empire thing, after all. Alfred yawns, thrusting his arms into the air, and Arthur is there in an instant to scoop him up in his arms (there is room enough) and carry him off to bed.

Blowing out the candle, Arthur silently prays for Francis to stay to the north, away from Alfred.

_He will if he knows what's good for him, _the Dreadnought thinks, brushing the hair from Alfred's eyes.

_If all this began with America, which I believe it did, I shall be perfectly content for it to end with America as well. Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Even if his is the only love I am to know in my life, glad I shall still be. I have so much to thank you for, Alfred._

He whispers into the shell of Alfred's ear: "Stone so strong will last so long, last so long…"

* * *

When Arthur has business to conduct back home, he always brings Alfred a present upon returning ("You're here! I missed you!"), but one day in 1667 is different. Instead of more toy soldiers, Arthur has brought back malaise from the Great Plague that turns his gentle smiles into ugly grimaces ("Just a touch of Black Death, lad, nothing to fret over — this sort of thing happens in Europe from time to time…") and a racking cough from the Great Fire.

He retches and heaves at night from the force of the cough. It awakens Alfred in his own bedroom down the hall. The boy desperately wants to help — maybe a glass of water? — but can only lay in his bed, paralyzed by his greatest fear: Living a life without Arthur in it.

But Arthur has also brought a book with him.

"_Paradise Lost,"_ Alfred reads out loud one evening in front of the crackling fire. "What is it about?"

"It's a brand new poem, printed just this year," Arthur says, stirring his tea.

Alfred thumbs the pages of the book and turns up his nose. "An awful _long_ poem…"

"To be sure, but with Satan's rebellion and the Fall of Man as the primary focus, the poem would simply _have_ to be rather long, hmm?"

"Doesn't sound very interesting."

"Oh, but it is, truly. You have always been told that Satan is the enemy, correct?"

"Yeah."

"Well, in this _awfully_ long poem, Satan is almost cast in the light of a hero."

Alfred considers this. "Satan? As the _hero?"_

Arthur shrugs. "That's what some are saying, lad. In the end, however, it's up to you to decide for yourself how you see him."

He smiles (grimaces) and sets his tea on the table.

"If you remain wholly uninterested, I suppose there is no point in my mentioning there are also _several_ battles and swordfights described in _great_ detail."

They read together late into the night, and Arthur looks at the boy who seemingly sprang forth from the earth to meet him in this new world, a colony he is creating in his own image — but Arthur knows Alfred is much more than just a colony. He is bone of his bones, flesh of his flesh, and Arthur loves him.

He ruffles the boy's hair and imagines they will walk in the garden tomorrow. The roses will be in bloom, after all.

* * *

Much, much later, he will stand in a field — the wheat has already been threshed, _thank God,_ elsewise it would really be too much — and feel a prick to his shoulder. And how he will laugh! For a bullet has struck him, and the blood is blooming on his lapel as though it were one of his lovely roses, flowers worthy of paradise.

Alfred is calling it a revolution _(the strongest and the fiercest spirit that fought in Heaven, now fiercer by despair)_ but Arthur sees it only as rebellion _(I made him just and right, sufficient to have stood, though free to fall…Awake, arise, or be forever fallen)._ They fight bitterly both on and off the battlefield.

Off: Arthur rushes to their home after news of the Boston Tea Party spreads. He is shaking violently, does not know what he will do when he finds Alfred but —

The house creaks emptily around him. The furniture is in disarray, a curtain is torn.

A note scrawled in Alfred's hand: _Did I request thee, maker, from my clay to mold me man? Did I solicit thee from darkness to promote me? These are thy glorious works, parent of good._

Off: Arthur roughly drags Alfred into a grimy alleyway after the Declaration of Independence is read aloud in the town square. He buries his fists into his former ward's face.

"_Satan,"_ he spits, "so call him now, his former name is heard _no more_ in heaven."

He weightily backhands Alfred before taking his leave.

On: Alfred asks Francis for help. Francis arrives almost instantly.

The Spanish chuffer is not far behind.

* * *

When the fighting is finished and the brazen throat of war is swollen shut, when the ink on the Treaty of Paris is finally dry, their eyes meet. Alfred's face is as boyish as ever but tempered with an earnestness Arthur has never seen in it before.

The seriousness of Alfred's expression _offends_ him.

_Alfred is young and utterly stupid. He thinks he is justified — that he the first person in the entire course of history to feel exploited, neglected, abandoned. That's simply what nations do. He cannot simply change millennia of history with his pathetic idealism, his stars and stripes and states. I hope you have ever so much fun, Alfred, sitting in the darkness and hatching vain empires. I hope you think of me when you feel the guilt over it. _

_He says he wants our relations now to be cordial, to be friendly — how dare he, after all that has happened! My past was to have been rectified by our future. Everything I have suffered was to have been made right. Does he not see that my past fated me to him?_

_Alfred, I'm wholly ashamed of you, but perhaps no more so than I am of myself._

* * *

Arthur's mind is a mess. He wavers between vast regret _(gold and silver I have none, I have none)_ and a burgeoning craving to once again be strong, stronger, the strongest.

Alfred may have rebelled, but that will not neatly wash away Arthur's sin of pride. He decides to stop behaving so disgustingly _desperate._ It made him weak, and in his weakness, he spoiled Alfred.

Satan is the hero of _Paradise Lost,_ is he not? And he himself is the feared Dreadnought. What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable will, and study of revenge, immortal hate, and courage never to submit or yield.

It is a beginning.

* * *

Today Arthur finds he was mistaken — Satan was not the intended hero, nor he, not ever. He feels too embarrassed these days to ask forgiveness from anyone. He has hurt far too many of them in his own hindered quest to stop hurting.

Today England has many allies and Arthur himself has several acquaintances — some who spend more time with him than others, though he's wary of calling them friends more for _their_ sake than his own.

But nothing is as easy, as unconditional as what he once knew with Alfred. Kiku is a kind and understanding soul but bristles when so much as a humble hand is placed on his shoulder. Angelique sends him Christmas cards but never sits by him in meetings. Marie promised to dance with him.

He can't blame a single one of them.

When it comes to love, Alfred is the only real memory he has. They get along well enough nowadays when they aren't arguing, but sometimes Arthur notices Alfred acting oddly toward him — worried, protective, even attentive.

He can't put his finger on it, but it angers him. They are _adults,_ they are _professionals,_ and what began with America so long ago ended with America so long ago. The time for making gifts of fireflies is over.

Though he doesn't necessarily understand why they feel the way they do about him, England believes his people when they say they love him; Arthur Kirkland will never again believe it coming from the lips of Alfred F. Jones. Arthur neither weeps nor obsesses over what might have been, but he does have feelings (despite what Francis says) and needs (despite what former conquerors insisted) and wants (despite what Arthur himself would have others believe).

Still — he can't help but desperately wonder, sometimes.

.

**Author's notes (please feel free to skip):**

*From Milton's _Paradise Lost:_  
–a smile that glowed celestial rosy red, love's proper hue  
–such joy ambition finds  
–at whose sight all the stars hide their diminished heads  
–for solitude sometimes is best society, and short retirement urges sweet return  
–abashed the devil stood, and felt how awful goodness is  
–live while ye may, yet happy pair  
–out of one man a race innumerable  
–him first, him last, him midst, and without end  
–flowers worthy of paradise  
–the strongest and the fiercest spirit that fought in Heaven, now fiercer by despair  
–I made him just and right, sufficient to have stood, though free to fall  
–awake, arise, or be forever fallen  
–did I request thee, maker, from my clay to mold me man? Did I solicit thee from darkness to promote me? (FRANKENSTEIN ahhhhh all my love for that perfect, perfect book)  
–these are thy glorious works, parent of good  
–Satan, so call him now, his former name is heard no more in heaven  
–the brazen throat of war  
–sitting in the darkness, hatching vain empires  
–what though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable will, and study of revenge, immortal hate, and courage never to submit or yield

*Prince Arthur and Gloriana are from Spencer's "The Faerie Queene"

*Richard is Richard Grenville, Sir Walter Raleigh's distant cousin and one of the two men chosen to go found the doomed Roanoke colony. The two men eventually left the colony to gather more supplies and men, but when they returned, the colony was abandoned. To this day no one knows what exactly happened to the colonists, though there are a several theories.

*The last massive outbreak in England of bubonic plague occurred in 1665-1666, and then the Great Fire of London occurred in 1666. _Paradise Lost_ was first published in 1667.


	4. Chapter 4

**London Bridge**

.

Chapter Four

"America," Wilde says, "is the noisiest country that ever existed."

Arthur readjusts his gloves, checks the stickpin in his ascot, smiles tepidly.

"And," Wilde continues, "America is the only country that went from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between."

Here Arthur gives a bark of laughter and realizes young Oscar, despite his flippant manner, is usually quite right about things — he and Alfred have not seen each other, have not been civil to each other for ninety-nine years. Arthur, who never does anything by halves, idly wonders if he can stretch those ninety-nine years into a solid, round hundred.

* * *

It is 1882 and Francis can't stop prattling on about his Belle Époque. Wilde can't stop going on about it, either. He has grand, romantic notions about the role art plays in life, or perhaps he simply believes that art is life. Or that life is art. Perhaps life is _an_ art.

Whatever the case, whatever Wilde believes, he believes it passionately (as those who have yet to be tempered by experience are wont to do) and has a great desire to bring his great rush of beautiful feelings to North America.

Arthur bristles a bit because this is all very French — too French by half, especially for an Irishman.

Indeed, the young man absolutely has a reputation for being scandalous, though perhaps not quite the kind of scandalous Alfred's cowboys will appreciate. Arthur is to be his chaperone for the next four months as he has always been better at keeping people in line than Patrick, and Arthur is of the opinion that Wilde's triumphs should reflect well upon the Empire as a whole, not just his brother.

* * *

They are attending an afternoon garden party and it impresses upon the senses not unlike one of those fuzzy French paintings so in vogue at the moment. The sun is warm and high, tinkling through the trees and dotting the shoulders and backs of the guests. The conversations around him are as light as the laughter and the fine china, but Arthur feels out of place, out of character. He has the distinct feeling he should be somewhere else — signing an act of war, making some kind of vague threat to someone, somewhere — not scooping strawberry ice cream into a glass bowl, surely.

Wilde, meanwhile, relaxes at the head of a white-clothed table and charms everyone around him as only he can. In his purple coat and green-striped hat he could be the Mad Hatter himself.

_Life is art, eh?_

And so here he is, the resplendent British Empire himself, traipsing all over Alfred's country, when they have not seen or written to each other in almost a hundred years. Arthur has had opportunities to contact Alfred but has never acted upon them. That obnoxious Boney wasted so much of his time, and then that _Monroe_ and his bleeding _Doctrine._ Arthur knows it was mostly meant to be a slap in Antonio's face, so in theory he agreed with Alfred, but he couldn't help but feel it was also a subtle warning from a young nation — a young man — towards himself as well: _"…the American continents, by the free and independent condition which they have assumed and maintain, are henceforth not to be considered as subjects for future colonization by any European powers."_

_You European fops stay out of our (my) hemisphere once and for all,_ he can almost hear Alfred intone — almost, because he really has no idea what Alfred's voice sounds like now.

He turns to find a seat, the ice cream now much too melted and frothy to be appetizing, when someone bumps into him.

"Oh, gosh, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean — "

"Quite alright — "

" — England?"

"…America."

Both clear their throats and fidget — Arthur readjusting his gloves, checking his stickpin. Alfred is holding a glass bowl of strawberry ice cream in each hand and is dreadfully unsure — raises them, lowers them, raises them, lowers them.

"You look well," he finally says. _(Build it up with needles and pins, needles and pins.)_

"As do you."

Arthur won't look Alfred in the eye, but Alfred can't tear his eyes, so full of wonder, away from Arthur's face.

"How're things?"

Arthur considers. "Some fool tried to assassinate my queen."

"Oh, I'm…so sorry to hear that. She's okay?"

"Yes."

"The man who killed President Garfield is going to be hanged," Alfred offers.

"Indeed." Arthur bends a little, gives Alfred just the barest hint of a stiff, formal bow, and turns. "If you'll excuse me."

"Wait!" Alfred cries. "Arthur — _wait._ Please."

Arthur hesitates, but eventually turns to face Alfred, that taut something between them easing at the use of his personal name.

He looks at Alfred then, _really_ looks at him, and silently wonders at the changes in the nation, the _person_ before him. Behind his spectacles, Alfred's face is impossibly young, but his expression holds a hint or weariness. Innocent and worldly, boastful yet somber — it is the face of a young nation coming out of civil war and (carefully) into his own.

"Here," Alfred exclaims, finally setting the glass bowls on the refreshment table, "let me take your coat. It's so hot out here, surely you'll be more comfortable."

Arthur glances down at his clothes, so perfectly tailored, not a single wrinkle or errant thread in sight. Alfred is only in his waistcoat, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and most of the other men in attendance are likewise casually dressed — except Wilde, of course, the peacock.

Arthur finds he does not care about fitting in so much as he does not wish to be rude to his host, so he peels off his gloves and shrugs off his coat.

"Mr. Wilde confided to me that his first thought upon landing in America was that if the Americans are not the most well-dressed people in the world, they are certainly the most…_comfortably_ dressed."

Alfred is bashfully delighted. Even after an almost solid, round hundred years, Arthur is still Arthur. It doesn't show on his face, but still, Alfred knows, and that is enough. It is enough to know they still have this — something, _anything_ — between them.

_(Pins and needles bend and break, bend and break.)_

* * *

Only scheduled to lecture in 20 North American cities, Wilde proves to be so popular he eventually discourses in 150. Alfred invites himself along on their journey. It is a grueling expedition — if not a new city every day, then every other day — but a fascinating one.

In Stockton, California, they talk about Wilde's unexpected popularity:

"Your people truly wish to have our stay extended? We shall not burden you at all?"

"Gosh, no," Alfred replies, waving a hand, but he bites his lip and hesitates before continuing. "I know that my people have held anti-British sentiments for decades, but all that's finally starting to cool down."

"And you?" Arthur asks, after a moment's consideration of whether or not he truly wants to ask this question, or if he even needs to. "Did you share your people's sentiments then?"

Alfred opens his mouth to speak but the words take time.

"Well, after the Revolution…not really, no."

Arthur tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes.

"Indeed?"

"My people were always a little suspicious of the English," Alfred slowly continues, "but I consciously put all that in the past and tried to focus on creating my country, on building it up. I thought about you a _ton,_ but I never wrote or sent a telegram…and I sure as heckfire never asked to visit, or asked you to visit me. So…I'm sorry. It was stupid to wait so long."

A silence slithers around them until Alfred suddenly chirps: "Say, you ever try an avocado before?"

"No, I don't believe I — "

"_Oh,_ my _gosh._ They're _so good_, almost like butter on your tongue. C'mon, let's go try some!"

They eat avocados and corn tortillas for their dinner. Alfred laughs every time Arthur mispronounces _guacamole._ Arthur begins referring to it as _that vile green mash,_ but continues eating all the same.

* * *

In Macon, Georgia, they talk about America's recent civil war:

Arthur has always had a cracking good memory, so he recites what Wilde shared with him earlier that day: "Among the more elderly inhabitants of the South I find a melancholy tendency to date every event of importance by the late war. 'How beautiful the moon is tonight,' I remarked to a gentleman who was standing next to me. 'Yes,' was his reply, 'but you should have seen it before the war.'"

He mentions it because of the scars on Alfred's wrists.

The corners of Alfred's mouth sag, his eyes go distant. He rubs at the pink stains, self-consciously pulls his shirt cuffs over them — an X on his left wrist for the Confederate flag and an O on his right for the flag of the original thirteen colonies.

"Do…do the scars ever go away? Do they ever fade, or are we stuck with 'em forever?"

"I can only speak from personal experience," Arthur sighs. "Some fade, some do not. I suppose it all depends on the severity of the trauma and how long ago it happened, or perhaps how quick the nation is to recover."

"Do you still have any?"

Arthur shifts uncomfortably in his chair. "Yes, several, and the frog still has one on his neck from la Révolution. It is a common enough occurrence amongst our kind."

Alfred lightly traces one of the scars with the tip of his finger.

"Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth," he whispers, more to himself than to Arthur.

There is a divide between the north and the south in Arthur's own land, and he ponders how _he_ would react should every part south of the Trent break away. But what is astonishing is Alfred had only truly been a nation for 78 years before he was gutted from the inside out. Some of his politicians at the time whispered in his ear that they needed to pick a side, but Arthur was resolute in turning a blind eye — and now, for the first time in years, he feels the hollow echo of guilt creep into his soul.

For one so young, Alfred has made remarkable progress but also knows the unbearable weight, the sheer _terror_ of staggering failure. Alfred's hands are as calloused as his own; Alfred has scars; America has survived a civil war.

He and Alfred are so alike now, so even, but they really shouldn't be.

"Please don't," Alfred says when the guilt encourages Arthur to offer him awkward words of encouragement _(how will we build it up, build it up?)_. "I know you're just trying to be kind, in your own way, especially since we haven't seen or spoken to each other in a super long time. But…I would rather figure this all out on my own."

Despite his colonies and territories and occupied lands, Arthur's spine stiffens, his chin rises.

"What I mean to say," Alfred rushes on, his voice panicky, "is — is — all I've ever wanted was for you to be proud of me. Not as a father is proud of his son, not as a teacher is proud of his student, not as an employer is proud of his employee, but as a man is proud of another man." He rubs his wrist, but smiles. "I'll be fine. You'll see."

It isn't a threat. It is a promise.

"Say, do you know what tomorrow is? It's…my birthday."

"Have a smashing birthday, then. You deserve it. But don't be surprised if I develop a ghastly headache tomorrow morning."

The next day, in Atlanta, Alfred waits for Wilde in front of De Give's Opera House. He is noticeably surprised when he sees Arthur step out of the carriage after Wilde.

"What is a trifling little headache," Arthur cheerfully admonishes, brandishing a letter, "when you've just received word that you're about to conquer all of Egypt?" He saunters into the opera house, spinning his cane with a deft hand.

* * *

In between Long Island and Cornwall, New York, they promenade past Lady Liberty's torch in Madison Square Park (about two hours away from where that nice Roosevelt family has recently welcomed little baby Franklin):

"Francis has sent over the plans and golly, let me tell _you,"_ Alfred says with a sigh, "she's gonna be _beautiful." _He leans against the fence and rests his cheek on his hand, gazing up at the torch with a dreamy look in his eyes. "I think she's gonna inspire so many people — maybe even more than the monument we're finishing for General Washington will."

Arthur snorts. "I do hope he intends to send over more than just her arm — a lovely arm, to be sure, but not the most inspiring of images on its own."

"Oh, he will, I'm sure of it. But we still have our part to do, too."

"Which would be?"

"Well, we're responsible for erecting the pedestal she'll be standing on. The economy's not too good at the moment, so we're starting fundraisers for it. Some people can only contribute a nickel, but if _everyone_ pitched in…"

He sighs impatiently.

"Not much of a gift if you have to go Dutch."

"Well, I reckon the thought's nice enough, the symbolism behind it and all. And it's nice to know you've got friends out there, cheering you on."

Arthur smirks. "You assume the entire world is watching you?"

"I'm sure at first they did just to see if I was gonna stick it through to the end, or if I'd just give up." He rubs his wrist, fiddles with his shirt cuffs. "But now I wanna give 'em a reason to _keep_ watching. I wanna show everyone how it's done, and done _right."_

"Just remember that not everyone who watches is a friend, and sometimes it's best to hold your hand."

"But if I have something great to offer the world, why keep it a secret? And, hey — I told you I want to do this on my own, remember?"

* * *

They part at the train station in Bangor, Maine:

The last leg of Wilde's tour will take them through Canada. Arthur checks his pocket watch, his posture impeccable as he silently waits on the platform; Alfred is shuffling on his feet, running a hand through his hair.

"Will you say hi to Mattie for me?"

"Certainly."

The train arrives, hissing to a stop, and Alfred lets out a hefty breath. He is acting as though he is running out of time, and Arthur ponders what he is playing at. After traveling together these past ten months (almost a round, solid year) Alfred should be able to safely assume that they are now on friendly terms and will more than likely see each other again soon.

"Just…just take care of yourself, okay?" Alfred extends his hand and Arthur gives it a terse shake.

"Of course I will, you stupid git. As if I would ever do otherwise."

"And — just — I'll — "

Alfred has not yet let go of his hand; Arthur gently pulls it out of the warm, steady clasp.

"The train will be pulling out any minute," he explains. He readjusts his gloves, checks the stickpin in his ascot, smiles tepidly.

Perhaps life is _an_ art, after all.

.

**Author's notes (please feel free to skip):**

*You know what's awesome? I had never, in my _entire life,_ until I started doing research for this fic, realized that a serious controversy had arisen during the American Civil War about whether or not the UK would join the war, or that both the North and the South sent over ambassadors to woo the Brits, or that they'd built the Confederacy some war ships. _And I'm a history nerd._ Awesome job, American school system! 8Db...BU

*Everything Oscar Wilde says in this chapter he actually wrote in real life. Other famous people besides FDR born in 1882 I wanted to include but couldn't find a way to: Virginia Woolf, James Joyce, John Barrymore, Bela Lugosi.

*The Belle Epoque (I love this period!) and the Panic of 1873.

*Boney was a not-so-nice nickname the English used for Napoleon. (True fax: I want more Napoleonic Wars fanfiction, MAKE IT HAPPEN Y'ALL). I've always been told that in Britain, the War of 1812 is seen more as a pesky annoyance across the pond while they were trying to keep Nappy from, you know, kinda taking over continental Europe? But in America – if it's even taught at all – it's seen as "The American Revolution: Part 2."

*Ice cream was first introduced to America around the late 1600s.

*Interestingly, the man who tried to assassinate Queen Victoria and the man who shot President Garfield were both declared mentally insane.

*For the most part, Americans more or less distrusted the English until right around the turn of the 19th century. England's having our back in the Spanish-American war was a factor (see: The Great Rapprochement) in us finally deciding to stop giving them the side-eye once and for all. (Distrust of the English eventually morphed into a distrust of the Germans.)

*Avocados are native to Mexico, which used to own (and today shares a border with) California. Tortillas have been around since ancient times, and the Aztecs made guacamole pretty much the same way we make it today, which I think is pretty cool (~*connections through the centuries~ ACK I am such a _sap_ sometimes). British sailors would sometimes mash avocados up and slather it on their hardtack, referring to it as "midshipman's butter," lawl.

*The River Trent has historically been considered the boundary between Northern England and Southern England.

*Alfred's burfday is July 4; the British occupation of Egypt officially began that September, though the British were involved in that area since at least January.

*The Statue of Liberty was sent over to America from France in whole pieces (ie, her torch, her head, a foot, etc), and certain parts of her were put on display in America and France before all her parts were ready to be assembled in 1886. There are pictures and I think they're fascinating to look at, and I'd include links but FFdotnet likes to, you know, _be a butt_ about links. BT The Washington Monument was formally dedicated after years and years of planning and construction in 1885.


	5. Chapter 5

**London Bridge**

.

Chapter Five

Alfred and Arthur meet regularly and frequently write each other letters.

_Artie,_ Alfred writes, _don't laugh — okay, I know just because I said not to that you're going to, but just humor me, alright? — I think it was destiny for me and Antonio (or is it Antonio and I? I can never remember, it's your damn language) to fight. Whites and blacks were fighting right beside each other, supporting each other, and they were fighting something fierce. I'm so proud of all of them. And northerners and southerners were fighting together, not against each other. I think for the first time in years they had a common goal, and it's brought us all back together, made us all a family again. I could cry over it, I really could. Even the scars on my wrists are starting to fade. I ain't a poet or anything but lots of the soldiers were children of the civil war veterans, so it's like a new beginning, isn't it? And for you and me, too, I think (you and I?). You were the only one who was on my side during this whole thing, so thank you. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU. See? I told you my people were warming up to you. They're not that fond of Ludwig anymore (he was a complete ass at Manila Bay, but I sure showed him what's what), which is a shame because my people and his share some blood between them._

_Alfred,_ Arthur writes, _it was difficult to support you when my neighbors on the Continent were all supporting that Spanish fellow, but with your victory I feel amply justified. Though perhaps it would be wise not to blow this out of proportion — I did nothing that would merit such profuse gratitude from you. Coal, ships, and communication lines are of little consequence, I fear, and whatever my personal feelings on the subject, my government too dearly loves its Cuban trade to let it slide completely beyond their reach. (Perhaps you can return the favor someday, but I digress.) You are still planning to let Cuba have his independence, correct? Your future actions need not be scrutinized by me, but it would be a lie to say I'm not the slightest bit curious. With your new territories, it would surprise no one should you wish to create an American Empire — and I pride myself on knowing something about empires. PS — Surely your people and mine share more blood between them?_

* * *

The funny thing, Arthur remembers one blessedly silent night in 1940, is that he sort of likes Ludwig. He realized this on another blessedly silent night in 1914.

When bosses declare war it can be hard to separate the government from the personification, but sometimes, in the heat of it all, nations find they have no desire to. Arthur wonders exactly how complicit Ludwig — so quiet, so serious, always so determined to keep his thoughts to himself — has been in everything these past five years or so. It would not surprise Arthur in the least to find this Great War is merely another case of Ludwig putting honor before reason, for Ludwig is an honorable man.

_Best put these thoughts out of mind, old boy_, Arthur thinks around a slight haze of alcohol. _Don't want to slip up around the enemy. Christmas is no excuse to get chummy. Set a man to watch all night, watch all night._

At first he and his men could see the Germans lighting candles, then they could hear carols being sung, and Arthur isn't sure who made to move across No Man's Land first, but now he finds himself in possession of a bottle of whiskey and feeling good for the first time in months — or if not good, then at least better.

The whiskey makes him feel bold, makes him feel as seductive as a villain. Last night, on Christmas Eve, he was Edmund; tonight he is honest, honest Iago — _but not too honest, now, old boy_. Tomorrow he will soberly go back to being only Arthur Kirkland; his hands will speak for him, soberly killing Ludwig's men.

He and Ludwig are sitting cross-legged, watching a group of men kick around a football. Arthur throws up his arms and cheers, exhilarated, whenever someone does something, regardless if it's a goal or a foul, an Englishman or a German. The game is holding Ludwig's interest on a far more dignified (so quiet, so serious) level.

"My dopey king," Arthur amiably says, "keeps blubbering on and on about changing his surname to something more _English_ sounding, as if that's the only thing he has to contribute to this damned war. As if anything so silly would give any sort of morale to anyone at this point."

Ludwig grunts. "It was a joke to assume this war would be over by Christmas. It was shameful to think so."

"Pah!" Arthur takes a drink from the bottle. He is not drunk, but he _has_ had enough to loosen his thoughts and his vocal chords. "Blast all, Victoria!" he suddenly cries, shaking a noble fist at the sky. "Your grandchildren are royally fucking everything up!"

He turns to Ludwig. "What if all this is simply some stupid family melodrama that originated from…hanged if I know, actually. Something ridiculous from their childhood — a dirty nappy or a nice kick in the shins, or some such. 'Mamma! Willy stole my pony!'"

"Families will always fight, especially the privileged. They are used to getting what they want, and don't stop to think of the others involved."

"Ah, but here's the brilliant thing," Arthur leans in close and whispers, like a conspirator. "All of us could just up and walk right on home this very instant. What better day to leave it all behind than on Christmas, eh? Every fucking shred of it. And we all _want_ to, and we all have the _opportunity,_ but the thing is, no one is _going_ to. And do you know why, old chap?"

Ludwig stares ahead, unblinking, though his eyes are not fixed on the football.

"It's because those boys out there _love _us," Arthur sneers. "You and me — the lush limey and the sorrows of young Ludwig." He takes another drink. "Think back and lie of England, why don't they. Then they'll _really_ love me."

Ludwig reaches for the whiskey.

(The funny thing is, they're very much alike.)

* * *

The hardest part of saying farewell is not knowing what the future holds.

With the end of the Great War, Francis can no longer prattle on about his Belle Époque, Alfred's Gilded Age has tarnished, and Arthur's prim and perfect Victorian Era is over. But they find themselves — these choice and master spirits of the age — in a position to firmly decide what the future holds, and not just for themselves, but for everyone.

The beginning of the Paris Peace Conference is anything but _(not that much conferencing and not at all peaceful,_ Arthur thinks, _though we are in the suburbs of Paris, so there is that)_. They cannot quite come to terms over Ludwig's fate, but everyone agrees: nothing sounds as nice, as dark as velvet, coming from his lips as _I am guilty, je suis coupable, Ich bin schuldig._

In the fragile Hall of Mirrors in Versailles, every action is dreadfully magnified: Francis' fists banging on the table, Arthur's peevish sighs. Everyone's nerves are wrecked — except, notably, Alfred's. He looks like he's had the sleep of his life. He looks like he could fight another war all by himself. (He looks like he wants to.)

"Francis," Arthur warns, "your behavior is worse than a child's." He rubs his eyes and leans back in his chair. "If you cannot cease your sputtering," he says around a heavy sigh, "we will kindly ask you and the entire French delegation to vacate the premises."

"Over my dead body!" Francis snarls. "Who put you in charge, Angleterre? This is _my_ palace, _my_ city, _my_ country — "

"That can be arranged, you know." Arthur crosses his legs, laces his fingers together. "Your dead body, I mean."

Swift and precise, Francis comes around the table and hurls Arthur out of his chair.

Alfred comes between them, his fingers digging into Francis' shoulders, dragging him away from Arthur.

"Shit, you two," he breathes, eyeing them both up and down. _"Shit."_

According to Francis, the enormity of Ludwig's crimes will render his reparation period only the rest of his existence; the terms the others are suggesting are not a peace so much as they are merely an armistice for twenty years. Francis is _demanding_ of them, will not _beg_ them, but he cannot completely hide the anxiety in his voice — on such a full sea are we now afloat, mes amis, and we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.

He pounds his fists on the table for emphasis. Angleterre and Amérique are only being so lenient to that reaper, that _gasman_, because the war did not come to their soil; they cannot at all fathom what _his_ people have suffered.

And then a curious, dull ache blossoms at Arthur's shoulder, as though from a phantom limb — curious because the phantom limb in question never actually belonged to him. It belonged to Jack, an eighteen-year-old army lieutenant. Jack died in his sleep at Loos, resting against Arthur; Arthur, senselessly tossed and retossed in stale mutilation, didn't move for two hours.

"You are beyond selfish," he whispers, but there is force, there is _bite_ behind it.

Francis makes an appeal to Alfred — surely, surely dear Amérique has more sense, he is an honorable man — but all Alfred says is: "I agree with Arthur."

Francis and Arthur look at him, one absolutely aghast, the other surprised.

"Et tu, Brute? So you two are finally in bed together now, is that it?"

"That is most certainly _not_ — " Arthur growls, his face red. "Damn it, you _fucking frog_, there's making him pay for what he did — "

_Happy Christmas, Herr Fritz!_

_A good Stille Nacht to you, Mr. Tommy!_

" — and then there's _revenge_."

Finally and completely at a loss for words, Francis storms out of the hall.

At first writing Francis off as merely dramatic _(the role art plays in life)_, Arthur, an honorable man who never used to do anything by halves, watches him leave and suddenly feels sick.

Alfred walks up to him and lightly touches his hand, but Arthur brushes him off.

"Don't," he snaps, and turns to leave.

* * *

And so cry _havoc!_ and let slip the dogs of war — Arthur detests giving Francis satisfaction of any kind, but at least it's easier to spit out _you were right_ twenty years and three months later over the telephone than it is in person.

For once, Francis has the grace not to say _I told you so._

* * *

So many of the others have fallen, and now it is his turn, apparently; Ludwig is beating Arthur and his people to the pit. Every night his kingdom is haunted by the spectral bombs, a bleak promise humming in the shivering aftermath: _This is but the beginning, as it was the beginning of the end for them._

He has traveled with the king and queen in their attempts to hearten the East End, for when that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept.

"No, no, I am glad the palace was bombed, dear," the queen once told him, gently patting his cheek. "It makes me feel I can look the East End in the face."

STAY PUT, the Ministry of Information is telling the people, THINK BEFORE YOU ACT, BUT THINK ALWAYS OF YOUR COUNTRY BEFORE YOU THINK OF YOURSELF, but their country loathes himself _(London Bridge is falling down, falling down)._ His people are suffering and he cannot do anything to alleviate their burden — nor, he agonizes, did he do enough to prevent it. He was inexcusably weak. He was cowardly. It was a grievous fault, and grievously hath Caesar answered it — he cannot forgive himself, and wholly refuses to.

Yond Ludwig has a lean and hungry look, he thinks too much; such men are dangerous. The weight of what may or may not be Ludwig's complicity these past thirty years insolently idles on his shoulders, burrows down deep into the knots in his muscles.

* * *

He stands brooding before the window of one of his secret London offices, the lamps extinguished, the heavy black curtains thrown aside. Every ghost of illumination has been exorcised; the only light in the city is the faint, pearly kiss of the moon. The _longing_ and the _want_ within him — he yearns for the tolling of the church bells, aches to see the slumbering Big Ben awaken. Put out the light, and then put out the light; the rest is silence. This is not his city, he laments; this is not his heart.

The door opens behind him but he doesn't turn around; he knows it can only be one person.

"What's all this, then, Nation?" Churchill asks, wary yet still amused. "Not turning nocturnal on me, are you? Like a bloody cat you look."

He lays his hat, gloves, and cane on the desk amongst all the papers. "I am fond of pigs, myself," he mentions, almost as an afterthought. "Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals."

Arthur turns to face him. "You know I would never look down on you."

"I am glad to hear it, as you and I are the same height. Delusions of grandeur are ill-becoming."

Arthur smiles but it does not reach his eyes.

"You are not usually lacking for words, Nation."

Why does he try to fool this man?

"I — " he starts.

"It — " he tries.

He sinks into a nearby chair, his head in his hands. "I — "

He hears Churchill shuffle toward him.

"I shall never forgive you if you begin to despair," he growls, though not unkindly. "You have my word."

"I do not _despair,"_ Arthur spits. "I only…I only wish things were different. So very many things."

"As do we all. I'd like to meet the man living today who _doesn't_ wish they were different. I'd also like to have my pistol on me when I meet him."

"Forgive me, but I have little to no capacity for laughter at the moment."

Churchill considers this. "A joke is a very serious thing."

Arthur lifts his head from the cradle of his hands, straightens in the creaky chair, the mood in the room changing as swiftly as his posture.

"How are the people holding up?"

"Much the same as before."

"And the royal family? Do they still refuse to leave?"

Churchill nods and makes to light a cigar.

"Idiots," Arthur whispers.

"Yes."

For some time, the only sound in the room is Churchill sorting through the papers on the desk. But something else, another noise, slinks into the room. Arthur concentrates, plays along. It cannot possibly be _music_, of all things.

But yet — _and yet_ —

He thinks he hears a trumpet, faintly, and then — can that be strings?

Arthur stands and throws the window open, leaning out into darkness, the ghostly nothingness.

Somewhere, a scratchy gramophone is playing. The song ends, but a hand returns the needle, and the song starts over. Arthur listens to the familiar melody, savoring it, when, to his utter fascination, the song starts over yet again — not only this, but somewhere, somehow, a voice rises up to sing.

_I vow to thee, my country, all earthly things above, entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love._

Arthur feels fire in his chest. Not the fire of blood-red hate, or the burnt orange of churning anger — _the love that asks no question, the love that stands the test, that lays upon the altar the dearest and the best —_ nor the suffocating indigo of deep misery, but the glorious gold of righteousness, the blinding yellow of courage — _the love that never falters, the love that pays the price, the love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice _— the grey steel of unbending, unconquerable resolve.

And Arthur, an honorable man, vows to give _all_ his people a reason to continue singing until the day their isles sink back into the sea from which they rose.

Yes, this is still his city, after all. _(It will stand for evermore, evermore.)_ This is still his heart.

Arthur pulls his creaky chair as close to the window as it will allow and listens, transfixed. Churchill comes to stand beside him.

"A little off key, sounds like," he grins.

Arthur's own grin is lopsided. "Perhaps you should get your hearing checked, old friend."

They continue listening, and Churchill places a large, steady hand on Arthur's head. Arthur closes his eyes and revels in the touch.

"Bring me my bow of burning gold," Churchill suddenly grumbles, moving to gather his things from the desk. "Britons never shall be slaves, and so on and so forth, unto your etcetera, forthwith." He holds up a large, thick envelope. "I have what I came for, Nation, and so bid you adieu."

He searches Arthur's face. "Victory?"

Arthur nods. "Victory."

* * *

Later, Arthur is still listening — the record plays continuously though the singer, after a few rounds, has retired for the night. The papers on his desk remain woefully neglected as he can't bear to pull himself away from the music.

The door opens behind him. He knows it must be Churchill again, so he continues to focus on the music until the gramophone's owner finally rests the needle for the night. Arthur can feel the hand in his hair again; he closes his eyes and leans into the touch.

"I don't appreciate Mr. Churchill saying that Americans only do the right thing after we've tried everything else."

Arthur's eyes snap open and he all but leaps out of his chair.

"Alfred!" he shrieks. "What the _bloody hell_ are you doing here?"

"That's no way to greet a hero," Alfred says, sulking. "Geez, even the Joker and Lex Luthor know how to be polite!"

"Do not sneak up on me like that, and I've no idea who this Joker or Lex Lutheran even are."

"Maybe if you're nice to me I'll tell you one day." Alfred glances around the room. "Say, why are you sitting in the dark? And why is the window open?"

"Never you mind," Arthur says, hastily moving to shut the window, draw the heavy curtains, turn on a lamp. For a few moments he and Alfred are lost to each other in the darkness, and if either one of them is blushing, neither will be the wiser. "You still haven't answered my question."

Alfred thrusts his hands into his pockets, rocks back and forth on his feet. "Oh, abou' wot the bloody 'ell I'm doin' 'ere?"

Arthur frowns, entirely unimpressed with Alfred's attempted accent. "Yes, that one."

Alfred moves to sit in a chair and rests his feet atop the desk, hands behind his head.

A wide grin spreads over his face. "I'm here to help, naturally."

"What the devil are you going on about? I really don't have time for your games. And _kindly_ remove your feet from my desk."

Alfred lifts his legs but keeps them elevated above the desk, grin firmly in place. Arthur bats his feet away, and they fall heavily to the floor.

"It's not a game, actually, and I _am_ here to help, honest," Alfred softly says as he watches Arthur go about tidying up the papers.

He drops his hands to his lap and leans forward. "But it's a secret. You have to promise you won't tell nobody. Because…well, I know things aren't that great for you right now — "

"Who told you that?" Arthur snaps, as fierce as he is defensive. "And what do _you_ care about the goings on in Europe? You, safe and cozy on the other side of the world, far away enough to pretend that if you can't see the bad things happening, they aren't real? I'm not stupid, Alfred, and neither are you. We both know what Murrow has been reporting back to the Americans, and at the very least you've all surely seen that Chaplin film. You cannot claim to be a major power of the world and yet sit idly by while the rest of us — "

"But I do care!" Alfred cries. "You don't know_ how much_ I care!"

Arthur screws his eyes shut and waves a hand, putting a halt to this ridiculous charade. "Don't, Alfred — just don't."

He looks at Alfred — _I will rip that simpering smirk clean off_ — but is disappointed to find no smirk, only wide, innocent eyes and a red welt on his cheek.

"What is wrong with you face?"

"Now that's just cruel," Alfred pouts. "But, uh…Mr. Churchill gave it to me."

"He _what?"_

"Yeah," Alfred drawls, shyly rubbing the back of his neck. "I saw him when I first got here. I wanted to come see you first thing but didn't know where you were, so I had to ask around. Boy howdy, he was surprised to see me, too! And when I told him why I was here he kinda…whacked me in the face with his cane. Hard." Alfred winces at the memory. "And then he told me it was about damn time I showed up."

Arthur narrows his eyes at Alfred for a moment, but then moves to rummage through the tiny office. After finding a bit of cloth, he grabs the pitcher of cold water sitting on a tray by the shelves. Coming back to the desk, he soaks the rag, rings it out, and places it on Alfred's cheek. Alfred grits his teeth and hisses, but thanks him. He takes the rag, his fingers twining momentarily with Arthur's.

"Go on." Arthur crosses his arms and leans against the desk.

"Well, anyway, don't be so angry at me. My boss wants to do what's best for my people, but I keep tellin' him that we need to get involved for real."

"Really."

"Well, yeah, of course! Say, did you know that Roosevelt and Mr. Dowding — "

"That's _Air Marshal_ Dowding to you."

"Whatever. They were born in the same year! It was the year you came over to see me with Mr. Wilde. Do you think it's destiny? 'Cause I do."

Arthur is unsure if Alfred is talking about Dowding and Roosevelt, their meeting during Wilde's tour, or possibly both.

"Just so you are aware, I did not come to see you specifically that time with Wilde. It was just a happy accident, that's all."

Alfred tilts his head to the side and grins. "Well, I know you had fun, I could tell — I can always tell. You might can fool other people with your stiff upper lip but not me. But, _anyway,_ most of my people are on your side, even if the government hasn't officially done anything yet. Remember when you helped me out against 'Tonio? And you said that I could pay you back someday? Well, I'm trying to get Roosevelt on board with a program that could at least give y'all some supplies."

Arthur sighs and runs a hand over his tired eyes. "For how much?"

"For free."

Arthur drops his hand and can only stare at Alfred.

Flustered, Alfred hastily continues: "Well, I mean, they'd probably put some kind of condition on it — like, they'd expect everything back when you're done using it — that might be the only way it gets passed, but still. See? I get to help you, but my president doesn't have to officially declare war."

"That's dangerous, Alfred. Ludwig's boss is sure to find out about it and take action."

"Aw, like I care about that quack, anyway. Besides, Mr. Churchill says it's good to have enemies because it means you've stood up for something."

Arthur chuckles, taking the rag and rewetting it. "Are you a fan of his specifically or epigrams in general? And it's the _Right Honourable_ Churchill to you, git. But that still doesn't explain what _you're_ doing here." Their fingers twine again.

"Well, remember how I told you to keep it a secret? It's because some of my boys came here to help you fight, all on their own." Alfred smiles proudly. "They're being trained and they're — well, excited's a bad word for it, ain't it? But they're ready and they're here."

"Alfred…your government is officially neutral. What will they do when they find out their nation himself is condoning this group's fighting the Germans in British planes?"

"Roosevelt can take care of things back home — I have complete faith in him, _love_ that guy, I really do — but somebody's gotta look out for the stowaways. If they're found out they could lose their citizenship or be put in prison, so I'm here to watch over 'em. Just…just don't tell anyone, alright? I couldn't care less if everyone knows _I'm_ here, but I don't want those boys getting in trouble."

"That's noble of you. Stupid, but noble."

Alfred shrugs. "Nah, not really. I'm here for personal reasons, too." Alfred drops his gaze and toys with the rag. "I needed to know you were okay."

"I daresay I am more than capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much."

"Yeah, I know. But…you're important to me." Alfred rolls his eyes at Arthur's surprised expression. "You always _have _been and you always _will_ be, so just get used to it, alright?"

"No more jokes, Alfred, I'm not in the mood."

But Alfred isn't laughing. He stands and wraps his arms around Arthur, holds him close, and Arthur remembers: _A joke is a very serious thing_.

"Yes, yes," he says, patting Alfred's arms, "very good, you've had your moment — "

"Nope, not done yet." Alfred's arms tighten around him.

Arthur sighs. "Hurry up and be done with it, then."

After Alfred releases him, Arthur readjusts his shirt cuffs, checks his tie, smiles tepidly. "Don't say I never did anything for you."

Alfred claps him on the shoulder and smiles, easy and cheeky and so like the Americans in the movies. "That's not the last hug you'll ever get from me. Just consider it another thing you need to get used to."

"I can see it now," Alfred says, dramatically throwing out an arm and looking around the room, "all the hugs of our future: Bear hugs, quick hugs, _victory_ hugs, secret hugs — "

Casually, and before he can stop himself, Arthur blurts out: "Why on earth would we ever embrace in secret?"

And, too late, he realizes there's something in that — an embrace is so much more than a hug. And perhaps there is something in his even asking this aloud, but — no, certainly not. He is just tired, surely. (His cheeks continue to burn long after he firmly decides _I'm just tired, this room is just hot, he's just trying to rile me up, this is all his fault, that wanker.)_

Alfred smiles and shrugs, thrusting his hands into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his feet. He wants very badly to quote Mr. Churchill again; he truly admires the man but he also knows how it irks Arthur.

This time, however, he only shamelessly winks and keeps Arthur's own once-upon-a-time words to himself: _Sometimes it's best to hold your hand._

._  
_

**Author's notes (please feel free to skip):**

*The letters they write refer to the Spanish-American War, April – August 1898. Though they weren't involved militarily, Britain sold us coal and ships and let us use their undersea telegraph lines, which was pretty sweet. The Spanish-American War helped America finally move on after the Civil War and Britain's involvement lead to us all being friendly again. It was also the start of America being a major world player, though we were officially still isolationist at this point.

*Why Germany Was a Dick at Manila Bay: German ships intentionally got in the path of American ships, they were landing supplies for the Spanish, and they refused to salute the American flag at sea (an old naval tradition of respect). The Germans (who were never officially at war) were basically trolololing the Americans (whereas Britain wasn't officially involved either but they kept their support defensive, not offensive) but they eventually cooled their jets when we called their bluff.

*Goethe's _The Sorrows of Young Werther _highly influenced the English Romantics.

*Edmund is the villain of _King Lear,_ though he repents at the very end. Honest, honest Iago is the villain of _Othello,_ but he remains deliciously evil and unrepentant until the end. Other shameless pilferings from Shakespeare:  
–Put out the light, and then put out the light (Othello)  
–The rest is silence (Hamlet)  
–an honorable man (I swear, this is, like, only the most ironic line in _all of literature)_ (Julius Caesar)  
–Speak, hands, for me! (said just before the conspirators stab Caesar) (JC)  
–These choice and master spirits of the age (JC)  
–On such a full sea are we now afloat, and we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures (JC)  
–Et tu, Brute? (JC)  
–Cry, "Havoc!" and let slip the dogs of war (JC)  
–Our enemies have beat us to the pit (ie, "they have beaten us to the edge of our graves") (JC)  
–When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept (JC)  
–If it were so, it was a grievous fault, and grievously hath Caesar answered it (JC)  
–Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look, he thinks too much; such men are dangerous (JC)

*In 1917 King George V changed the name of the British royal house from Saxe-Coburg and Gotha to Windsor due to high anti-German sentiment throughout the kingdom. The irony is that English is a Germanic language - you couldn't make it less German-sounding if you tried. XD Most of the reigning royals in Europe at this time were all related, mostly through Queen Victoria; George V (the UK), Nicholas II (Russia) and Wilhelm II (Germany) were all first cousins.

*"Not peace but an armistice for twenty years" was said by WW1 Supreme Allied Commander Ferdinand Foch – the French delegation thought the Treaty of Versailles was actually _too lenient _toward the Germans, though the harshness of the Treaty is today considered one of the major causes of WW2. All the separate treaties deciding the fates of the individual Central Powers combined make up the Paris Peace Conference. Germany's took the longest to hammer out.

*Jack here is English author Rudyard Kipling's only child, who died at the Battle of Loos. "To be senselessly tossed and retossed in stale mutilation" is a line from his haunting poem "The Children," and his poem "My Boy Jack" is…just…8'(

*The Christmas Truce, though I think most Hetalians know this story? : )

*The East End is a historically very poor and crowded neighborhood of London. The quote in the story is an actual quote from the Queen Mother. Pretty cool lady, actually.

*The blackout and STAY PUT and THINK BEFORE YOU ACT were real, but surely there wasn't any rule against singing patriotic songs to keep your spirits up, right? ...Right?

*Upon further research, I realized that Churchill didn't actually say some of the things I attribute to him in this story. WHOOPS. "A joke is a very serious thing" is from the poet George Churchill, but hey, he's English, and this story deals with England's literature, so it fits! And as for that "it's a good thing to have enemies" Alfred quotes...apparently Churchill never said that. But let's pretend that's just Alfred being Alfred and misquoting in good faith. 8')

*The Joker and Lex Luthor first appeared as enemies of Superman and Batman in the late 1930s.

*Edward R. Murrow is _the_ journalistic example of excellence and one of my personal heroes. The Chaplin film is _The Great Dictator, _Charlie Chaplin's satire of Hitler – though Chaplin later stated that if he'd been aware of the true horrors of what the Nazis were doing at the time (the death camps, the Holocaust), he never would have made the movie.

*For being such a large part of the USUK fanon (well, it appears that way to me, anyway), only 7 Americans are actually on record as helping out during the Battle of Britain.


	6. Chapter 6

**London Bridge**

.**  
**

Chapter Six

For one horrible month after the Battle of Thermopylae, Greece's mother walked with a limp. Like a princess in a twisted fairy tale, Ukraine slept in a fitful slumber for a year after the Mongolian invasion. China suffered from nightmarish hallucinations after the Opium Wars.

And after the attack on Pearl Harbor, America went mute.

* * *

Never a big eater, Arthur is pushing food around on his dinner plate when he first hears the news.

A large party has gathered at Churchill's country residence, but Arthur's mind continuously wanders back toward London. A perfectionist, he has no desire to momentarily leave the war be. Though there _is_ work being done — Churchill and John Winant, the American ambassador to the United Kingdom, are inseparable — Arthur feels it is disrespectful to his people to remove himself from the thick of things, to dictate war at so leisurely a pace.

A glance down the table at Churchill, his head in his hands, softens his heart.

_Humans are so…well, so human. Fragile for all their strength and courage. There is only so much they can take, after all. Perhaps getting away from London is indeed the best choice for now._

To get away from London is also a chance to get away from the confused and confusing thoughts of Alfred, though these feelings he carries within him — fresh and sore and so frighteningly _tender,_ so impossibly buoyant — won't depart so easily. Iron and steel may bend and bow, but Arthur is not fond of change, and to find _himself_ changing is the cruelest joke of all — to find himself falling again, tumbling fast and furious toward something he knows is fruitless, something he knows from experience will only end in his bitter disappointment. After Alfred's independence Arthur swore to never again become emotionally entangled during a conflict, but this war is fast becoming personal in the worst of ways.

The portable radio is brought into the dining room for the evening news. It is a completely routine newscast until suddenly, unemotionally: _"The news has just been given that Japanese aircraft have raided Pearl Harbor, the American naval base in Hawaii."_

Someone drops their fork, another gasps.

Churchill knocks over his wineglass as he rises from the table and storms out the room.

Arthur and Winant glance at each other before inelegantly rushing after him.

"We shall declare war on Japan!" Churchill thunders as he stalks down the hallway.

"Sir — " Arthur starts beside him.

"Good God!" Winant cries from his other side. "You cannot just declare war per a radio announcement!"

Churchill stops and narrows his eyes at them both. Arthur cannot be certain, but he imagines he sees something harder in the look Churchill throws at him than the one he gives Winant.

_Only a few moments ago I was pushing around soggy carrots, _Arthur thinks, numb in his shock. _And now —_

Finally, Winant says: "I will call Roosevelt at once."

* * *

In the study, Arthur can hear Roosevelt's aristocratic, yet business-like voice crackle through the old-fashioned telephone: _We are all in the same boat now._

Churchill and Winant are jubilant upon hearing the news, but Arthur cannot get his body to obey him at all: His limbs will not move and his restless brain keeps bringing up memories of a very young Alfred playing with paper boats.

_Is this…surely this is not due to his sending us aid? Surely this is not…because of me. Did my incessant attempts to guilt him into picking a side — our side — finally come back to hurt him? I will never forgive myself if I am responsible for this._

"Nation! Come, have a drink with us!"

"A drink, sir?"

"Yes, to celebrate winning the war. England shall live. Britain, the Empire, and the Commonwealth all shall live. _You_ shall live, my once and future king."

"_I'll be fine, you'll see," _Alfred once told him, rubbing his wrists and smiling.

_Oh, Alfred. I'm so sorry. Alfred, Alfred…_

Arthur turns his attention to Winant.

"Mr. Winant, please be so good as to phone Washington once more. It is imperative I speak with Mr. Jones as soon as possible."

But, once put through to Mr. Jones, all Arthur hears is silence — perhaps a faulty line, perhaps they have connected him with a different Mr. Jones entirely. Perhaps his own hands are shaking too violently.

Winant tries again, but Arthur is met with the same silence.

The next day Arthur tries to contact Alfred through telegram: _I am coming. Churchill will be with me. _

Not half an hour later he receives Alfred's reply: _Don't risk it — too dangerous. Later?_

_No,_ Arthur sends back. _Now._

* * *

They arrive at the White House three days before Christmas, but that means little as Christmas has not truly been Christmas for a few years now. There is no peace anywhere on earth, and goodwill toward men? In his anxious need to make sure Alfred was alright, Arthur never paused to consider if Alfred would even _want_ to see him. Surely Alfred will never again cling to him and shout, _You're here! I missed you!_

"The dear boy is coping," the First Lady says as she pulls Arthur aside, the lights of the White House Christmas Tree glittering behind her, "but it was a great, great shock to him. Poor thing hasn't spoken a word since the attack."

"Of course." _(Suppose the man should fall asleep, fall asleep.)_

"You will keep a special eye on him while you're here, won't you, Mr. Kirkland? He has always been very fond of you, and I don't think anything any of us say or do is going to make much of a difference."

Arthur's surprise shows on his face.

"I will do my utmost, madam," he says, after a moment, "but I fear if he hasn't responded to anyone else yet…_well._ I don't know what should make me so different."

"You'd be surprised."

And indeed, Arthur _is_ surprised when he finally sees Alfred. Coming around a corner, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his collar wrinkled and undone, Alfred's face crumbles when their eyes met. He hurriedly walks to Arthur and bends to lay his head on Arthur's shoulder, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

* * *

Churchill gives a rousing speech before Congress a few days later. Throughout the speech Arthur sits next to Alfred and tries to listen, tries to fully experience this moment in history for what it is, but he feels disoriented — Churchill always promised things would become clearer once the Americans entered the war, but with the final fall of Hong Kong yesterday and the atrocity at St. Stephen's, Arthur sees no difference, really.

At one point during the speech Arthur notices Alfred vigorously bouncing his leg up and down in his seat. Arthur reaches out a hand and gently places it on Alfred's knee; the bouncing stops. Later, Alfred's nervous energy travels to his fingers, and he can't help but pick incessantly at the skin around his nails. Arthur reaches out his hand again, calmly covering Alfred's jittery fingers with his own.

* * *

It is still early afternoon when Churchill's speech is finished, and Arthur suggests they get some fresh air. They end up walking to a nearby diner, and the black coffee they order goes cold between them.

Alfred reaches inside his jacket for his pen. Grabbing a napkin, he scribbles something on it and slides it over to Arthur.

_I'm so glad you're here._

"Well," Arthur nonchalantly replies, "I am glad to be of service, though I don't — "

He cuts himself off. This…_devotion_ Alfred seems to have toward him is as ridiculous as it is unwarranted; he is not worth such displays of affection, especially _now,_ and that they come from Alfred at all in the first place is puzzling in itself. It only serves to make Arthur angry — he can't help but feel as though he's being ridiculed, somehow.

"Alfred, don't — don't say such things. Why on earth should you be glad to see me?"

Alfred writes something on the napkin, but scratches it out and starts over.

_Because I feel best when I'm with you._

Arthur scoffs. "And what, have me drag you down with me?"

_Kiku and I (me and him?) have been eyeing each other across the Pacific the past few years. What he did was dirty as hell, but something was bound to happen._

"You should hate me."

_Why? This wasn't your fault._

Alfred bites his lip and hesitates before writing the next part.

_I have never hated you, but I have always loved you._

"Ha!" Arthur shouts, and it's loud enough to draw attention from the other diner patrons. "Only my _people_ love me, boy, and I don't even understand _that_. I've given them little reason to, much less you. You, who I dragged into this — "

Alfred's eyes go wide and he vigorously shakes his head back and forth.

"No, you _listen_ when I'm talking," Arthur seethes, pointing a finger at him, but he's more angry at himself than he is at Alfred. "I should never have pressured you, should never have forced your hand. Neutrality is admirable in its way — wanting to keep your people safe — and I certainly should not have judged you for that after my own isolationism. I've been a — a selfish brute, and how you must _resent_ me for all this."

Arthur draws his hand back a little but keeps his palm raised, still holding Alfred at bay.

"So don't…don't _pretend, _Alfred. Don't pretend you're glad to see me when I know you're bloody well not." Arthur's voice drops to a whisper. "I can abide anything but pretending."

Around them, men brag about whooping on the Japs, women titter over how handsome all the men will be in their uniforms.

Alfred sadly studies Arthur across the table. He grabs a new napkin and begins writing.

_Entreat me not to leave thee, and to return from following after thee, for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people._

"I don't know, Alfred," Arthur sighs, shaking his head. "I just don't know."

Why does Alfred persist on continuing in this manner?

It's all too, _too_ much, this realization that he wants at this very moment, more than anything, to hear Alfred's voice. His need to hear Alfred's voice is as strong as his need to safeguard his people, and this fact unsettles him, for he protects his people out of his unconditional love for them, so it would follow that —

_No, _he thinks._ Don't start, _he thinks, even as he realizes he's already halfway there.

Every nation goes through something like this eventually — he himself went blind after Hastings — but he's never seen Alfred in such a state. And _oh,_ there he goes, falling — falling — things are changing, bending and bowing, but they are also becoming more familiar, a normalcy from a lifetime ago that isn't — and Arthur knows where this will lead, where it lead him before, and he commands himself to desire no part of it.

"I hear you're on rations," Alfred suddenly whispers. "So if my people are gonna be your people, what am I allowed to eat?"

* * *

Though hesitant and scratchy at first, Alfred slowly regains his voice. He has several plans, all of which are focused on weakening Kiku. He learns Kiku is planning to attack one of Australia's territories — Port Moresby in New Guinea — and immediately sets out to help.

"I've gotta go," he says. "Stevie needs me."

Alfred says this like it's a personal matter to him, and Arthur wonders…

_Europe needs you_,_ I need you — but, no. No. Just wait until the war is over, old boy, and then you can deal with whatever this is, whatever it is becoming. You can staunch this if you want to. Stop making this war personal, especially when Alfred is not making it half so personal on your behalf. The gall I have! Now is not the time to act petty. Be thankful to him for taking care of Steven._

And take care of Steven he does — Kiku's ruthless march across the East is halted at Coral Sea and laid to rest at Midway. Thanks to Alfred and Steven's combined efforts, victory at Guadalcanal is not far behind.

* * *

As much as Arthur frets he's turning the war into something personal, it is perhaps even more personal for Alfred. A long, steady love of Arthur has made _everything_ personal since he was but a child. (For Alfred, there has only ever been Arthur.)

And he has never been good at hiding his emotions, especially around Matthew, whose troops cross paths with Alfred's in Belgium. Arthur made straight for Brussels — Marie's heart.

"Arthur's not with you?" Alfred asks, slinging his pack to the ground and worriedly looking around them.

"No, he's still in Brussels." Matthew takes off his glasses and tries to clean them with the edge of his uniform jacket. He squints up at the sky, stray hairs plastered to his sweaty face. "You know, it might have taken a bit longer, but Marie probably could've liberated most of Europe all on her own."

"What d'you mean?"

"Seriously, you don't know?" Matthew pushes his glasses back up his nose and sighs. "How you can be so oblivious all the time is beyond me."

Alfred rolls his eyes. "I've kinda had other things on my mind lately, bro."

"Well, the Belgian Resistance has been tenacious, to say the least."

"Oh." Alfred gives a slight nod of vague, conciliatory recognition. "Yeah."

"And Marie — _God,_ she was great. Her government had to go into exile in England, and even Arthur begged her to come to London, but she wanted to stay with her people. Her king was made a prisoner of war, and when he wrote to Hitler demanding that no woman or child be deported to Germany, she hand delivered the letter to Ludwig herself."

"Oh."

"But…_damn."_ Matthew drags the word out slowly, as though trying to encompass the entire breadth of the war in its utterance. "This war is going to change _everything,_ and it's going to change _us,_ and we won't even really know how much until years from now. I mean…"

Matthew lowers his eyes. "Al, you should've seen her when Arthur and his men got there to liberate Brussels. She looked so exhausted — you could see the skeleton behind the woman, and almost the ghost behind the skeleton. She fainted when she saw him, and he was really worried about her."

Alfred nods distractedly.

"…I think she'll be alright, though, if you're interested at all."

"Okay!" Alfred snaps. "I get it! She's awesome. _Way_ awesome, in fact. I couldn't agree with you more. Happy?"

Matthew eyes Alfred up and down for a few moments before finally deciding what to say.

"Just remember that you owe her for helping smuggle lots of your downed airmen to safety and keeping them from becoming German prisoners of war. I don't know — it might just be me, but _I'd_ be thankful to her."

Matthew shrugs and lifts up his hands. "Like I said, though — that's just me. Besides, I thought you liked stories about courage and heroes."

Alfred drops his head and colors in shame.

* * *

That spring, Alfred's president dies. He can feel an uncomfortable uneasiness settle about him the exact moment it happens, but Arthur is with him when he hears the official news.

"It's just not _fair,"_ he sobs in the tent, the soft glow of the lamp comforting, and at the same time, not. "It's just…we all knew he wasn't the _healthiest_ guy around, sure, and I teased him about that all the time, but now I wish I hadn't. It's so _unfair_, Artie."

Alfred wipes his nose with the back of his hand and sniffs loudly. "And why does _Hitler,_ that awful son of a crazy bitch-bastard, who's never been _any_ good to _anybody_ in his entire stupid _life,_ get to live, and _my_ boss is cold and dead and gone?"

Arthur sighs heavily, feeling a little disconsolate himself. For once, he doesn't have the heart to scold Alfred. Things like this never get any easier.

"His city is surrounded and everyone is saying he's gone stark raving mad. You may rest assured the end will be soon for him, but…"

Arthur reaches out to lay his hand on Alfred's shoulder, and it feels — it feels good. Natural.

"You must promise me to be strong until then."

Alfred reaches up and grasps Arthur's hand.

"Roosevelt wanted to see this through to the end so bad," he whispers, squeezing Arthur's hand. "He was one of the toughest, smartest people I knew, and I really looked up to him. Kinda like you."

He gives Arthur a wobbly grin and then inhales deeply.

"I'm sorry," he sighs, letting go of Arthur's hand and rubbing his face. "Every human dies, I know that, I just...I'm just really glad that I'm not ever _really_ alone. I'm glad I've got you and Mattie. You two mean everything to me, and if either of you weren't around I don't know what I'd do — and don't you forget it, neither."

"Yes." Arthur clears his throat and clasps his hands safely behind his back. "Well."

(Falling, falling. Bend, bow.)

* * *

Ludwig's boss takes his own life less than a month later, and the war in Europe ends on Alfred's new boss' birthday.

Arthur has no idea how Mr. Truman celebrated, but as the royal family and Churchill stand waving to the euphoric crowd on the balcony of Buckingham Palace, he slips away and finds a quiet, dim room. For the first time since the war began, he breaks down and sobs — he has never been prouder or more humbled in his life. Later he will walk out into the Mall, Trafalgar Square, and Piccadilly, and sing and dance and cheer with his people late into the next morning, but for now, in his own way, he celebrates.

* * *

It surprises only a few people when, despite the surrender of his allies, Kiku refuses to back down.

It doesn't surprise Arthur a jot. Island nations inherently understand one another, and Arthur knows Kiku's buried too deeply in this war to even consider giving up now.

_War used to be such great fun,_ Arthur reminisces. _Why did we turn it into something so personal?_

It is decided that Alfred will be the one to meet Kiku face to face while Arthur stays in Europe to lead the Allies through the beginning of the end.

* * *

It is a pleasantly warm day in the garden of 10 Downing Street, and rather than sit on the paved terrace to do his paperwork, Arthur has set up a small table and chair directly under one of the trees further out in the yard. The drowsy shadow of the tree drapes over him whilst a nightingale, that light-winged dryad of the trees, singest of summer in full-throated ease above him.

He has been steadily working since mid-morning. A well-worn, well-read, and well-beloved copy of _All Quiet on the Western Front_ rests on the corner of the table; when he desires a break, he hears it was one of the books the Nazis burned with relish, but there are rumors Ludwig saved as many copies of it from the bonfires as he could. (He also hears Ludwig saved several H.G. Wells novels from a similar fate, and Arthur wonders: How complicit was Ludwig in everything, _really?_ Was it personal for him as well?)

He recognizes Alfred's voice calling out to him from the house and, twisting around in his chair, gives him a slight wave.

Alfred, dressed in his white naval uniform, eventually makes his way over to Arthur.

"Am I underdressed," Arthur asks, quirking an eyebrow and looking him up and down, "or are you overdressed, for once?"

"Nah," Alfred drawls, sheepishly raising a hand to the back of his head. "This is actually my least favorite uniform of all time. It's like the higher in rank you are, they reward you with the itchiest and least comfy uniform _ever."_

"Still, it manages to make even _you_ look presentable."

Alfred smiles and shrugs. "I'll take it," he good-naturedly says.

He steps away and breathes in the garden — white hawthorn and the pastoral eglantine, fast-fading violets covered up in leaves, musk rose (mid-May's eldest child) full of dewy wine, the murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

"It's _so pretty_ out here," Alfred whispers, not wanting to break the spell. "I wish I had some place like this back home to do _my_ work in."

Arthur allows himself a small, proud smile as his pen scratches away on the paper. He can appreciate anyone who appreciates a good English garden.

"Maybe _then_ you'd actually get some work done."

"I get work done!" Alfred huffs. "I just…decide to do it when you're not looking, is all."

Alfred silently watches as Arthur continues his paperwork, and shuffles awkwardly his feet.

"Say, Artie?"

"Yes?"

"What happens when a nation dies?"

Arthur winces and his pen nicks the paper, makes an ugly black dash. The nightingale sings on as he turns Alfred's question over in his mind.

He sets the pen down and leans back in his chair, looking up into Alfred's worried eyes. "Why do you ask?"

"Well…because. Because I know how Kiku is. He's not gonna surrender and he ain't gonna give up without a fight, you know? He's gonna go down swingin'. And everybody's expecting something big from me."

He picks a flower from a nearby bush and twirls it between his fingers before hastily continuing: "Which is totally fine, I mean! I hate letting people down, and everyone deserves a hero. It's easy to put the mask and the cape on, after all, but...well, there's always that moment before you jump where your heart catches up with you, and it jumps up right on into your throat, and you realize you hadn't been paying attention to how fast it was beating or how your legs feel like jelly all of a sudden."

Alfred pauses to run a hand through his hair.

"I bet everybody expected a lot from Rome, too, huh?" he asks, dragging the corner of his mouth up into a questioning grimace. "I don't mean to compare myself to him in a snooty kinda way or anything. But you're an empire, Artie, you've thought about all this before, right? And we're _nations,_ but we have _human_ bodies, and all humans — "

"You will not die, Alfred."

"Tell that to Ancient Rome!" Alfred exclaims, his voice shaky. "Tell that to Greece's mom, and Egypt's, too! And I've read about Holy Rome — "

"Blimey, Alfred, _calm down."_ For once Arthur's brows furrow not in annoyance, but concern. "Stop this nonsense at once — I shan't listen to it a moment longer. You are going to be fine. If anyone can do this, you can."

Alfred doesn't look completely convinced, but he sighs and rolls his shoulders back, and Arthur knows that's a good sign.

"Well," Alfred says, his tone considerably lighter, "I guess being pessimistic never did nobody any good. Or being a realist, either, if you ask me — it's always better to aim for the stars."

He smiles one of those dazzling Hollywood smiles, and Arthur can't look at it for too long. The perfection of Alfred's smile is _blinding._

"Besides, I'd hate to ruin the moment."

Arthur picks up his pen and returns to his paperwork. "I was unaware we were having a moment."

"Well, _yeah_, 'course we are!"

Alfred bends to loop his flower into the knot of Arthur's tie, and his fingers brush Arthur's neck as he pulls away.

"This is my leave-takin', see? Just like in the movies."

Arthur snorts. "I can only hope real life is less melodramatic than what is portrayed on screen."

Alfred bites his lip.

"Say, Artie."

"Mmm?"

Alfred grips the sides of the table, and as a startled Arthur looks up to question him, he leans in and rests his forehead against Arthur's. Arthur gasps and stares at the bright blue eyes before him. Alfred closes his eyes, swallows thickly, and Arthur can feel his eyelashes flutter against his cheek.

"Artie," Alfred says, his voice a low, husky murmur, "don't — don't make fun of me. Maybe it _is_ melodramatic, but I've never done this before and the movies are all I've got to go on."

"_Alfred_ — "

"I'm just _saying._ What if I don't come back, and I never told you how I felt? Because I plan on coming out alright, but no foolin', half of me's pretty scared."

Alfred rests his cheek beside Arthur's as he leans over to whisper in his ear.

"So I'm tellin' you now — I love you. A lot."

Above them, the nightingale's plaintive anthem fades past the near meadows, over the still stream, up the hillside.

Paralyzed until this very moment, Arthur finally panics and roughly shoves Alfred away from him.

"Get off, you — you stupid, selfish bastard! _Get off!"_

Alfred stumbles backwards, eyes wide and mouth agape. Bewildered, he watches the chair tumble over as Arthur brusquely gets to his feet. The flower falls from Arthur's tie.

"Artie — what did I — "

"Don't," Arthur snarls, a hint of the Dreadnought in his voice. "Don't you dare, Alfred. Don't you _dare_ mock me by throwing cheap film lines at me like that."

"They're not cheap!" Alfred screeches. "And they're not film lines! They're _my lines,_ and they're how I really feel!"

"You insolent, _arrogant_…"

Arthur paces to and fro, and then turns, reeling on Alfred.

"Just who do you suppose you even are?" he spits. "Conveniently acting this entire time as though there is no bitter history between us. I refuse to be made an object of ridicule, and that's all you've done these past sixty years, you complete tosser. You make me feel close to you, finally, after _all_ our history together, and then you take _great_ delight in reminding me, _ever_ so charmingly, that for you this is only a game. I — "

Arthur balls his shaking hands into tight fists at his sides, and his knuckles turn white.

"I almost wish something_ would_ happen to you!"

And as Alfred stares at him, an unbearable tightness coils in Arthur's chest. Every fiber of his being cries out to just give in and _believe_ Alfred, and he swears for a moment he almost actually does — he _wants_ to bend, he _wants_ to bow —

"Do you wish to hurt me all over again, Alfred?" he asks, the sadness and the rage intertwining on his face to create something more honest than Arthur would willingly reveal otherwise. "There is nothing that could make you or anyone else love someone like me — I, who am in desperate need of _no one's_ pity, after all, _no one's_ fickle devotion, and who, I'll have you know, has absolutely _no wish_ to be tethered to anyone _ever again!_"

_It's better this way,_ Arthur thinks as he struggles to get his jagged breathing under control. _I could not bear to lose someone again because I could not offer them anything worth staying for. He'd be a fool to stay, and I have no patience for fools._

"Please," Arthur whispers, "let's end this farce. Just leave, Alfred."

Neither of them can look the other in the eye, even when Alfred moves one foot, then the other, and slowly makes for the house.

Now more than ever seems it rich to die of mortification, or fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget what the nightingale among the leaves has never known: The weariness, the fever, and the fret here, where but to think is to be full of sorrow and leaden-eyed despairs.

The nightingale's song returns above Arthur, perhaps the self-same song that found a path through the sad heart of Ruth when, sick for home, she stood in tears amid the alien corn.

He puts the chair upright and sits.

_So this is what it feels like when your heart breaks,_ he thinks. _I assumed I had forgotten the feeling entirely._

._  
_

**Author's notes (please feel free to skip):**

I'm so glad to have the opportunity to finally clean up this chapter! It was one of the ones I was least happiest with over on the meme and has bugged me ever since I first posted it. I'm still not 100% happy with it, but oh well._  
_

*In addition to Pearl Harbor, Japan also attacked Thailand, British Malaya, Guam, Wake Island, Hong Kong (where the St. Stephen's college incident took place), Singapore, the Philippines, and Shanghai that day.

*I used Lynne Olson's _Citizens of London_ as reference for what happened at Chequers, and as long as that book is accurate, then most of Churchill's and Winant's lines are true to history. : )

*Pearl Harbor was more a surprise attack in the sense that we knew _something _was probably coming, we just didn't know when and where. America had been giving the side-eye to Japan since the '20s but things didn't become serious until their invasion of China in 1931. The very fact that we had so much of our fleet at Pearl Harbor in the first place was meant to be a deterrent to the Japanese.

*"Entreat me not to leave thee…" Ruth 1:16

*The Nazis burned numerous "un-German" books in April, May and June of 1933. They burned anything they saw as not conforming to Nazi ideology. What is perhaps most terrifying, however, is that it was _brainwashed college students_ who did most of the burning. In one night alone at least 25,000 volumes of books were burned. Fiction and non-fiction authors of all nationalities and religions were burned, including: Charles Darwin, Albert Einstein, Sigmund Freud, Ernest Hemingway, James Joyce, Franz Kafka, Helen Keller, Vladimir Lenin, Jack London, Karl Marx, John Dos Passos, Upton Sinclair, Leon Trotsky, HG Wells, and Émile Zola.

*The story of how John Keats came to write the famous _Ode to a Nightingale_ inspired the end of this chapter. According to a friend he was living with at the time, Keats heard the bird singing out in the garden one morning. He grabbed a chair, brought it out under one of the trees so he could listen to the song, and in a fit of inspiration, wrote one of the most famous poems in the English language.  
–"That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees…singest of summer in full-throated ease" ___OtaN_  
–"White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;/Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves;/And mid-May's eldest child,/The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,/The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eaves…" _OtaN_  
–"Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades/Past the near meadows, over the still stream,/Up the hill-side…" _OtaN_  
–"Now more than ever seems it rich to die…" _OtaN_  
–"Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget/What thou among the leaves hast never known,/The weariness, the fever, and the fret/Here…Where but to think is to be full of sorrow/And leaden-eyed dispairs…" _OtaN_  
–"Perhaps the self-same song that found a path/Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,/She stood in tears amid the alien corn…" _OtaN_

*"You could see the skeleton behind the man, and almost the ghost behind the skeleton." Thomas Hardy's _Tess of the D'Urbervilles _(TESSSSS ;_;)_  
_

*I just really like the idea of Arthur expressing himself through his literature/poetry, and Alfred expressing himself through his films XD


	7. Chapter 7

**London Bridge**

.

Chapter Seven

_If I tell you something, will you promise not to laugh at me? I could really use some help. You're an expert on love, right?_

_But of course, mon ami! Big brother is always ready to help!_

* * *

Arthur dreams so rarely these days that if someone were to ask him about the last dream he had, he wouldn't have an answer for them. This seeming inability to dream has become habitual and, therefore, no longer bothers him — which is to say, it actually bothers him very much.

It has become just another fact in his life, something that simply _is,_ always _will be_, possibly always _has been._ Facts have an infamous way of becoming so ingrained in your life that you sometimes forget things were not always thus. It becomes the only life you have ever known — a life you could almost never give up.

Fact: Whenever Arthur _does_ dream, he dreams of the Great War. He dreams of shells and limp limbs tangled in barbed wire and ravenous rats roaming the trenches. He wakes up screaming, or drenched in sweat, or sometimes both. Afterwards he can feel the dirt under his fingernails for the rest of the day, no matter how short and bloody he clips them or how hard he scrubs at them _(wood and clay will wash away, wash away)_. Mornings after these dreams demand stronger stuff (two glasses of it, to be precise) than his usual Earl Grey.

Fact: If you ask, he will say he misses dreaming the same way he would miss hearing his neighbors argue about the rent, or the way one would miss a cat nonchalantly winding its way between stumbling feet — which is to say, not at all.

(And yet, Arthur always watches with a small smile on his face when Sibyl and Harry stop bickering long enough to dance to Glenn Miller records in their drawing room, and though his days aboard his beloved _Sundance_ have long since passed, he still remembers the pleasure of waking with the ship's purring cat nestled under his chin.)

* * *

So much of Arthur's identity is tangled with the tempo of war, the rhythm of campaign, the cadence of crusade, that he prefers to sleep on his back. He has spent half his life either back-to-back with a fellow warrior or with the knowledge that an ally was close by, watching out for him. Sleeping on his side or stomach leaves him vulnerable to the profound lack of another body pressed to his, and allies are only allies whilst there is fighting to be had; during peacetime, your back is your own responsibility.

* * *

His long day begins when he wakes up a full hour before his alarm is set to ring.

The unforgiving January chill creeps around him, and he recognizes an all too familiar ache at the base of his skull. He knows the moment he moves, the pain will blossom into a thundering headache. He stares at his clock until he is simply too bored to do so any longer, and rises.

He showers and dresses, makes his tea stronger than usual. He doesn't enjoy it, only swallows it quickly around four aspirin. All that's left for him to do is grab his briefcase from the study and head out the door, but suddenly he finds himself drawn to the most menial of tasks. He checks that the rug in the guest room lies completely flat. He straightens the hallway mirror. He more perfectly aligns the canisters on the kitchen countertop.

There is no ignoring the briefcase waiting for him in the study, however.

* * *

To say that today is an important day is to do it too little justice, for today is the day the United Nations shall replace the beleaguered League of Nations.

Arthur has diligently been preparing for the first meeting of the UN's General Assembly for weeks and he organized his briefcase last night, but this doesn't stop him from opening it and pulling out the roster of all the nations attending today.

Australia, Belarus, Belgium — _Marie never complains about anything, though she might have cause to today_ — Cuba beside Denmark, France next to Greece, Netherlands with New Zealand — Poland, Russia — _oh dear, things might get a tad awkward there _— Turkey, Ukraine, United Kingdom, United States —

The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, the United States of America.

No matter how many times he looks over the roster, he and Alfred are always seated next to each other.

Arthur ignores the sudden urge to throw back a glass of scotch before he leaves the house.

* * *

_How long have you felt this way about him?_

_Since literally forever._

_O-ho! That someone as young and handsome as you should care so much about that annoying island! And you are sure there is no one else? No one else sets your mighty hero's heart aflame the way Angleterre does?_

_No. I've tried to…well, I mean, remember how we didn't speak to each other for a real long time? I tried then. I've got some pretty good lookin' people. I thought…maybe it would be enough to just watch pretty human girls and handsome human fellas go by and live their lives, and just kinda live in a dream world. Just kinda sit back and daydream about this, that, and the other. But it wasn't enough. I've always wanted something more, and I can't feel about anybody the way I feel about Arthur. It's impossible, because for me, there really is no one else. There's never been anybody but him._

* * *

Everything is ready for the nations to begin their meeting except, curiously, for the nations themselves.

Arthur, as always, has planned everything to the last detail, but even he cannot control the air of apprehension in the room. (He also could not prepare for the way his pulse quickened when Alfred, so open and artless, smiled at him this morning.)

He stands at the round table — they are equal, all of them, as in all the legends — and searches for the right words to open the meeting with.

Whatever it is they are about to throw themselves into, it all starts here, and their host feels the heavy weight of the future upon his shoulders _(how will we build it up, build it up?)_, imagines it pressing its ear against the door. Whether it is there to reassure them or reprimand them is yet to be seen.

* * *

"Well." Arthur clears his throat, loops a thumb in the pocket of his waistcoat. "Welcome, everyone, and thank you all for coming. As your host today I wish to extend my sincerest — "

"Hey! Eyebrows!" Denmark shouts from down the table, waving an arm. "Get on with it already, old man!"

England removes his thumb from his waistcoat and hides his hand in his trouser pocket. "Need I remind you, Denmark, that you are, in fact, even older than I am?"

Denmark smirks and cracks his knuckles. "Let's do this."

"Do what, exactly?"

"This. Unite as nations, or whatever."

"It is exactly that kind of flippant attitude…" England starts. "Do you even understand the concept of why we are all here today, Denmark?"

Denmark chuckles. "Well, I sure as hell ain't here for the free food." He grins and glances at his fellow nations. "Huh, guys? Am I right or am I right?"

"I'll have you know, _sir,"_ England says through clenched teeth, "that we are still rationing, and _furthermore,_ I was under no obligation to offer you refreshments in the first place!"

Poland looks up from clandestinely examining his fingernails. "Were you thinking about starving us? That's way harsh. _So_ over it." He sounds bored already.

Beside England, Ukraine's eyes widen slightly. "What did he say? _Starving?_ Is there not enough food for everyone, England?"

He shakes his head, dumbfounded. "No, that's not — "

"What are we going to do?!" Ukraine wails.

England sinks into his chair and rubs his forehead. He had planned for today to be a completely sober affair, but this meeting is going exactly as previous world meetings have gone — which is to say, not well at all.

* * *

_You must tell him how you feel._

_I did, even though I didn't know what I was doing. My hands were shakin' so bad that I had to hold on to something the whole time. I was nervous as all hell, and it must've shown because now I'm just a big, fat joke to him._

_Oh, I would not worry about that. He thinks that of everyone._

* * *

China laughs loudly and waves his hands in a placating manner.

"No need to worry, I bring tasty snack for everyone! Snacks are always first thing I pack when I find out we have meeting in London."

Australia clutches the table, leaning back and precariously balancing his chair on its two back legs. "Sorry, mate, but all yer food just seems like empty calories. Didja bring anything that'll give a growing boy like me some _real_ energy?"

"How rude!" China scoffs, crossing his arms.

"Yes, how rude," Russia happily chimes in.

"When people are rude to my brother," Belarus says, darkly and to no one in particular, "they start losing fingers."

Australia falls forward in his chair with a sharp _clunk!_ and he tucks his hands under his legs, hoping no one notices.

China is still pouting. "My food has given energy to one of the largest armies in the world for thousand years!"

America, who is very proud of his military, claims that China's army is not as big as his own. China mutters something in his native language.

"Well, if we're gonna start bragging about how big everything is…" Denmark says around a rakish grin. He playfully nudges Cuba with an elbow.

America shakes his head, all seriousness. "You'd still lose to me." Clearly, this is not the first time he has contemplated this issue.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah!"

"You might be the hero, kid, but I'm the fuckin' _king!"_

Cuba leans over and whispers something in Denmark's ear. Denmark's eyes dance as he listens and he throws his head back and howls with delight when Cuba finishes his secret joke.

"Shut up, Cuba!" America roars. "Who cares what you think? _Not me,_ that's who."

Poland perks up. "I've totally got you all beat when it comes to that, anyway!"

America looks horror-stricken. "You've _got_ to be joking."

When France speaks up and claims that it is, in fact, no joke, everyone blanches.

"Do I even _want_ to know?" England asks. France tries to explain but England wordlessly throws up a hand to silence him.

"Oh, dear," Belgium sighs. "I hope our bosses in the other room are managing better than we are."

Across the table from his sister, the Netherlands grunts in solemn agreement.

* * *

_Then, you must show him how you feel._

_I've tried that, too. I tried that first, in fact, but he never got the hint. So that's when I told him…_

_Ah._

_You know, I think saying it out loud to him was the scariest thing I've ever done in my entire life. It would've been so much easier if he'd just see that I always try to treat him more special than everybody else in my life. It always works in the movies. I wish life were more like a movie. But even then you highfalutin Europeans would probably ruin it with your tragic endings. Sorry, but Americans will always prefer happy endings._

* * *

To let the meeting continue in such a manner would be highly undignified, so England stands and inquires if his fellow nations have looked over their agendas. The subsequent flurry of hand movement and paper shuffling answers his question. There are several housekeeping items they need to discuss regarding their new organization…

"Greece, are you awake? I say…Greece?"

France lightly pats Greece's back. "One cannot blame him — he must be dreaming of when this dreadfully boring meeting is finally over."

"Shut your gob, frog."

"In fact," France continues, "the more I hear you speak, Angleterre, the less likely I am to ever try invading you again. I would rather let you keep this lonely island of yours than have to put up with lectures like this every day."

England angrily points a finger at France. "You just _try_ invading again, you wine-loving tool, and you'll see what happens."

"Ah! Still such a sore spot, even after all these years, mon petit lapin?"

"You know, France," Turkey says, scratching his stubbly cheek with his thumb, "I never did get the appeal of some ugly, rainy little island."

"Hey, now…" America warns.

"Oh my God, I _totally_ agree!" Poland chirps, pointedly ignoring America's death glare. "Like, why are we even having this meeting here? My place isn't nearly as drab and boring."

"It's not drab and boring here," America insists.

"Seriously, those are the only two words I think of when I think of England. _Ugh. _If it's not drab and boring, then what is it?"

America shrugs. "I don't know, but it's…nice here."

Poland blinks. "Nice?"

"Yeah."

"What's so nice about it?"

America's laugh is a little higher than normal, a little nervous. "Come on, man," he implores, shifting uncomfortably in his seat and glancing around the table, "why are you Freuding me all of a sudden?"

"It is a simple question," Norway interjects. "Try, if you can, to tell us why you like it here so much."

"I…I just…"

Norway rolls his eyes. "England is still rationing. Please stop wasting air."

Russia leans in toward Poland and smiles. "Next time, we should be having the meeting at my place. It is not so cold when you are sitting next to the fire, and people always smell so good sitting next to a fire."

* * *

_Don't be discouraged. Fortune favors the bold! Be the hero you are always claiming to be! You could always do what big brother would do…_

_What's that?_

_Get him alone with you in a broom closet and…non, on second thought, neither of you are ready for that just yet._

* * *

"Please, countries, _focus,"_ England pleads, his head dully, steadily throbbing. "Can we please stay on track and pay attention to what's really at hand here? What would our bosses say if they could hear us right now? With the way you lot are going on, it's hard to believe we just clawed our way out of a world war — a _second_ one, mind you."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Denmark cries, a wounded look flashing across his face. "We aren't pretending the war didn't happen or anything."

"Yeah," Poland agrees. "That would be _totally_ disrespectful."

"It's just that…" Suddenly grave, Denmark bows his head. "We _know_ what happened. We lived it, yeah? We lived it every single day for _years._ So…I think we've maybe earned the right to go back to our normal way of doing things."

Poland's ever-present smirk fades. "It's one thing to accept what happened — and, oh my God, _a lot_ _happened_ — but it's another to, like, _dwell_ on it. We have to move on eventually or else we'll all go batshit crazy."

In the ensuing silence, the nations somberly reflect not only on the devastation of their lands, but also on how many of their people, especially civilians, they lost during the war — a far greater tragedy to them than anything. At this point, their governments' official numbers of the dead can only be estimates; the unspoken assumption is that these numbers are far too low. Time heals all wounds, but for them, as the dead continue to be counted and the final numbers are tallied, time will only cut the wounds deeper.

"I am sorry," England says, sincere. "I did not mean to imply — "

"Hey, wait a minute!" Cuba interrupts. "This agenda says we're supposed to talk about atomic energy? Like what was used in the bomb?"

"Yeah," America says softly, anxiously thumbing the corner of his agenda. "Like what was used in the bomb…"

America's voice trails off, and no other nation dares to speak.

Except Russia. "I would like a bomb!"

"No, you wouldn't," America says. "Trust me."

"No one tells my brother _no,"_ Belarus hisses.

"Look, the agenda says we're supposed to be _outlining peaceful uses for atomic energy_ and _making efforts to eliminate weapons of mass destruction from the world,_ and honestly, Russia, you ain't been the most stable guy around the past few years…"

Belarus tilts her head to the side and smiles sweetly. "Do you touch yourself at night with your right hand or your left hand, America? Because that is the hand whose fingers I will start with first."

Russia proclaims America a capitalist pig, America derides Russia as a commie, and Belarus declares America a dead man.

Belgium looks at England with pleading eyes.

"I realize we were assigned seats alphabetically," she says, "but would it bother you greatly if I moved as far away as possible from Belarus?"

* * *

_You know…you guys are always putting him down and laughing at him, and yeah, sure, y'all have known him longer than me, but I think there's a lot of things you all don't know about him — a lot of things you guys don't see in him._

_I am so free with my opinions of him because we grew up together, mon cher! I know him better than most, though he will deny it. In fact…go, run and fetch your bottle and blanket. There is a story about Angleterre I think you should hear._

* * *

"Seriously, you guys," Poland whines, "we're not getting anything done. I could be doing so many other things."

"Like what?" Russia asks.

Poland gives him a scathing look. "Like helping my people rebuild our country?" Contempt drips from every word.

Russia pats Poland's head. "What an honorable little nation you are!"

His eyes widen as he strokes Poland's hair.

"Such pretty hair," he whispers. "I would like to be making blanket out of it one day."

"Russia, man, _enough!" _America shouts, throwing his hands up in the air. "England, can't you bar him from the meeting or something?"

Cuba grins. "Aw, does pobrecito always go crying to England?"

"No!"

"Actually..."

"Shut up, Canada, and stop taking his side on things. It's getting annoying."

"Hey ese, don't you let that gringo bully you!"

Canada smiles at America. "So sorry, I forgot you don't like to be interrupted. Must be a side effect from always interrupting everyone yourself."

"It doesn't bother me if they actually have something to contribute to the conversation. Gonna speak up and contribute for once, _bro?"_

"Well, you always do such a nice job of telling other countries what to think for them, so I probably don't need to."

"America, Canada," England sighs, "please, keep your sibling squabbles to a minimum in public."

"He's just jealous because people remember me, because I stand out in a crowd. And you know why, _bro?_ Because I have personality, that's why."

_"Amérique…"_

Canada's expression remains serenely passive. "The only reason you have a personality is because England raised you well and gave you one, you ass. Funny how now you hardly respect him at all." He shrugs. "Maybe it's just me, but I call bullshit."

"That's not true at all! _I love _— !"

Both America and England blush crimson, and neither can look at the other.

" — I really love the way you can turn something around!" America finishes. "How many times did I have to listen to you complain during the war that no one would recognize your accomplishments because they'd all go under England's belt, hmm? And now you wanna say that _I_ don't respect him? That's rich! Hello, pot? This is kettle calling, just wanted to introduce myself. Just admit that you weren't hugged enough as a baby and get _over_ it already! I can't help that England and I — that he — that I — "

Under the table, England kicks America's leg so hard he will find a gloriously purple bruise there come morning.

Above the table, Poland asks Russia, "How long have you been braiding my hair?"

* * *

_You see, Angleterre likes to pretend that he hates those around him, even myself, but the truth of the matter is that he cares too much. He has a way of attaching himself to a lucky few — if he allows himself to, and so long as they are never aware of it. I know, I know. I do not understand it either, but c'est la vie. Love is meant to be celebrated and shared out in the open, non? But the thing about dear Angleterre is that he is stubborn. As stubborn as a mule and twice as —_

_Wait, that's it!_

_That's what? What did I say?_

* * *

"Belarus," England says sometime later, "I am loath to ask, but did you just throw a knife across the table?"

"That was no knife. _That was a warning."_

He throws his head back and curses.

"England?"

"Yes, Belgium?"

Belgium has never been any good at hiding her emotions, and the worry shows plainly in her eyes. "This United Nations is supposed to replace the League of Nations, correct?"

"That is the intent, yes."

"Do you think it will work this time, though? After all, the League was supposed to prevent the very war we just fought. I worry that history will repeat itself. It always does."

"Yeah, man," Turkey drawls. "How're we supposed to know we're not just wastin' our time here? Or settin' ourselves up for another war? I don't wanna be part of something that's just gonna end up assraping me."

England anxiously glances around the table. "But surely the commitment to preventing war is always a noble endeavor?"

"You cannot argue Belgium's point," Norway counters. "We will never be without war."

"I cannot make any promises," England says, a little sad. "The League itself should stand as a testament to how embarrassing such lofty promises can become in just a generation's time. But we have to try. And, I know what some of you may be thinking — that may sound out of character coming from me considering my own colorful history, but these past thirty years have certainly shown us that there is no longer any glory in war."

Australia, who always smiles, doesn't. "I think you live too much in the past, old man."

"Yeah," Denmark agrees. "This kind of stuffy, old-fashioned talk won't work anymore. Sitting around in a room badmouthing war won't stop it from creeping up on us, or stop _us_ from falling into its bed. War may be a bitch, but it's an awful nice lookin' one at first. Think about it — there are times when we can feel the world has changed, am I right? This is another one of those times, and when the world changes, you have to change with it, yeah? To keep doing things the old-fashioned way just seems…silly. And not enough."

"What is the point?" China asks. "We will never stop fighting each other. We can't even have a meeting without fighting!"

An oppressive silence fills the room. Everyone is uneasy because none of them have any answers — and certainly not the right answer they're all hoping for.

America huffs out a disbelieving laugh.

"Guys, guys," he implores with a gentle smile. "Come on, everyone, what's with the doom and gloom? Doesn't anyone here besides me believe in destiny? That fate brings people together at certain times for certain reasons? I think we all have a chance to turn this organization into something great and substantial, but like Poland and Denmark said, we can't get lost in the past. We've got to allow it to teach us and make us better, not bitter."

France smiles wistfully and rests his cheek against the back of his hand. "You surprise me with your maturity, Amérique, but sadly, the world does not spin on good intentions."

"Well, you're right there. And morality alone won't deter aggression. I wasn't part of the League, but I paid attention. We may have to take stronger stances on certain issues than the League did. There might be times when we have to use force, and not be afraid to use it. But there are things that are worth protecting at any cost."

He claps England on the shoulder.

"Like England said," America continues, "we have to at least _try._ If a house be divided against itself, that house cannot stand, remember? One of my favorite presidents added on to that and said, 'I do not expect the house to fall, but I do expect it will cease to be divided.' That's how I see the world, at any rate — a big house with lots of rooms and lots of families, but we bicker too much and don't sit down together for Sunday dinner as often as we should. Together we can accomplish anything. Look to the stars, guys!"

The room is silent again, and America instantly regrets his speech, fearing he's said something inappropriate or childish. But soon smiles dawn upon the other nations' faces, a few even clap and holler, and America lets out the breath he was holding.

He turns and bestows upon England the biggest, warmest smile he can stretch his lips into.

England smiles back.

"America," Ukraine exclaims, "that was so beautiful!"

Here England half expects America to wink and utter some rot about "America the beautiful" — he's done it before — but America thanks Ukraine sincerely, leans over and affectionately clasps her hand. The nations begin chattering amongst themselves, some even rising from their seats to converse with those they are not sitting by. England is surprised to see America forgoing all this, choosing instead to sit alone. He picks up his pen and circles something on his agenda, and England notices there are several notes written in the margins, as well as other circled items.

What England realizes about America — what Arthur realizes about Alfred — is that he cannot remember him as ever being so serious. He most easily categorizes Alfred as obnoxious and loud, a jokester, a show off. He was very serious during the war, of course, but they all were.

With a pang of guilt, Arthur wonders if he has not been giving Alfred enough credit. Alfred, after all, did not merely claim independence — Arthur will allow that Alfred _earned_ it, and the nation Alfred raised up has yielded a great people. Alfred's great experiment could never have succeeded were he anyone other than the person Arthur saw today.

Why, Arthur wonders, has he been so blind to this all these years? And if he's not mistaken about this, then there might also be the possibility that Alfred really and truly does — maybe — perhaps —

Alfred looks up suddenly and catches Arthur staring at him. His cheeks on fire, Arthur quickly turns his head away and does not see Alfred's soft, almost regretful, smile.

* * *

_Amérique, be careful. Don't assume you can change him or his way of thinking. He has his reasons for thinking as he does, though we may not understand._

_But see? That's it! He probably does like me — he can be really sweet to me when he wants to be — he just thinks he's got to hide it for some reason, maybe even from himself. I know I can make his life better if he'd just let me, if he just gave me a chance! Be bold, right?_

_That is not — ! Mon Dieu…_

* * *

Heracles vomited after eating some of Yao's snacks, though no one is sure whether this was due to a bad ingredient or his simply eating too many. Whatever the case may be, Arthur considers this as good a time as any for them to break for lunch.

He locates the janitorial closet and fills a bucket with soap and water. He hears the door click shut behind him as he turns off the tap, and turns to find himself alone with Alfred.

"Hullo, Alfred," he mumbles.

"Arthur," Alfred says, holding out upturned, empty hands, "I love you."

Arthur does not allow his eyes to meet Alfred's as he reaches for the mop. "So you've said."

"Well, it's as true now as it was when I first said it, but you can't run away from me this time."

"I do not run away!" Arthur shouts, his back going as rigidly straight as it can.

"What would you call it, then?" Alfred heated asks, and when Arthur does not give him an answer, Alfred glances away.

"Whatever it was," he says, his voice strained, "it really hurt."

"I did not mean to hurt you."

Alfred snorts. "Sometimes I wonder."

"Oh, come _off_ it!" Arthur casually tosses the mop handle against the wall. "What would I possibly stand to gain from intentionally hurting you, Alfred?"

"I don't know," Alfred concedes, "but what I _do_ know is that you hardly ever talk about your feelings — "

"Vile, _mutinous_ things," Arthur mutters.

" — and you lash out a lot, so..."

Arthur suddenly finds he has no wish to continue this conversation.

"Move out of the way," he orders. "Someone's got to clean up that mess."

"No." Alfred widens his stance in front of the door, narrows his eyes.

"Well, now — a show of force, is it?" Arthur crosses his arms over his chest and smirks dangerously — dangerous because Alfred is unsure if Arthur actually wants to fight or if he's just mocking him.

"That's not — I wouldn't — fuckin' _hell,_ Artie! Why do you always _do_ that?!"

"Do what?"

"Try to fight somebody!" Alfred shouts. "Geez, that pisses me off so bad. Not everything is always a fight. Just…lay down your arms for once."

Arthur laughs, but there is no humor in his eyes.

"What would you have me do?" he asks, his voice lighter than his heart feels. "If a person _could_ change so easily, don't you think I would have saved myself a world of grief and struggle and done it years ago?" He sighs, and he sounds tired, because he is. "You are waiting for a person who shall never exist, you stupid fool."

Alfred's eyes widen and he takes a step toward Arthur.

"Hey, you're not running away, and you didn't yell at me." A smile breaks upon his face. "This is progress!"

"I…" Arthur reaches out a hand toward Alfred, but stops — remembers himself, remembers who he is. He is an empire protected by walls on all sides, heavily fortified for a _bloody good reason,_ thank you very much _(build it up with stone so strong, stone so strong)_. Empires do not go gentle into that good night; they rage, rage.

He is not an empire. He _is_ empire.

Arthur pulls his hand back, tightens it into a fist.

"You are walking into subjects I have no wish to expound upon. If you'll excuse me." He grabs the bucket and the mop and makes to leave.

But Alfred reaches out his hand and gently laces his fingers around Arthur's arm. His fingers do not force Arthur to stay; rather, they beg him not to leave. Alfred is not holding him back, and Arthur is not flinching away.

"You are very proud of yourself and proud of the things you have, but being proud ain't the same as being happy," he whispers, his eyes tenderly imploring Arthur to look at him. "You could be happy again, and that's what I want to see more than anything, Artie. But…please don't play with my feelings just because you're unsure of your own. I need you — _really_ need you — not to do that."

Arthur stares at the wall, refuses to meet Alfred's eyes, and clenches his jaw.

"Sometimes," Alfred continues, a little louder, "I think, 'Hey, he's acting like he likes me — maybe he wants to be with me, and I'm not that bad of a guy, right? We could have a cottage with a garden if he wanted, or a farm with chickens, even though I think that's stupid because chickens are annoying as all get out, but I'd be willing to raise some stupid chickens if he really, really wanted them.' But then…you can be so _cruel_ sometimes, you know that?"

Alfred swallows thickly around the lump in his throat and lowers his fingers, his thumb coming to rest against Arthur's wrist. Francis was right, and the hero is starting to falter: If he can't change Arthur or his way of thinking, he's unsure if he's selfless enough to simply step aside and leave him be, especially when he knows, deep down in his soul, that Arthur truly deserves so much more.

A nasally voice fills the hall beyond the door and floats over to them ("Angleterre, is everything alright? What is taking you so long?"). The voice grows louder, the doorknob turns, and Francis pokes his head in.

"Do you need some help?" It only takes a moment before a shameless grin breaks across his face. "O-ho, _what have I found here?"_ he squeals. "Maybe you _do_ need some help, oui? Even numbers are overrated!"

"Go die, frog," Arthur murmurs as he roughly brushes past Francis and out of the closet.

Francis, a little disappointed, turns up his nose — Angleterre's time-honored slur is lacking its usual sting. "His insults are as uninspired as his food and his fashion."

He expects to hear Alfred chuckle or flash him a knowing grin in agreement, but Alfred says nothing, only lets his head droop a little.

Francis leans forward and peers up at him. "Poor, _poor_ Amérique," he sighs, and brushes some of Alfred's hair out of his eyes. "Things did not go well, I take it."

Alfred shakes his head and sniffs.

Francis Bonnefoy is of what one could politely describe as a theatrical nature; his love of romance only intensifies this disposition while his reputation enables it. He hears Alfred sniffling and imagines him gracelessly falling into his arms and sobbing about his unquenchable, unrequited love (which is to say, the very best kind of love).

"Oh, _Francis!"_ Alfred would cry, "you can't _possibly_ understand because you are so handsome and sexy and no one could _ever_ refuse _you!_ All that is left for me now is to die of a broken heart, for my one true love has crushed mine into a million pieces! Oh, oh! Woe is me!"

"Hush now," Francis would soothe, gently petting Alfred's hair and rocking him back and forth, gallantly refusing to draw attention to the fact that Alfred is positively _ruining_ his shirt with his tears, because there are matters of the heart at hand! And these are matters of the highest importance!

"You are a handsome, sweet boy," he nobly consoles, "and anyone would be lucky to call you their own!"

"But they wouldn't be Arthur!"

"You are a beautiful, gorgeous butterfly," Francis would say, grabbing Alfred's face and forcing him to make eye contact. "Do not let him take that from you! Now go, butterfly! Spread your wings and fly! _Fly!"_

"No!" Alfred would shout, and violently throw himself against the wall, the back of his hand tragically raised to his forehead. "If my love for Arthur is not meant to be, then I have nothing left to live for! I will end it all!"

Alfred would then make for the nearest window and try to throw himself out of it, and Francis would try to stop him, but alas, his effort will be in vain. And only then, when it is all too late, would Arthur realize his love for the boy, and miserably fall upon Alfred's silk-lined coffin, weeping, before bringing the vial of poison to his lips —

But Francis has never actually seen Alfred cry. And, he realizes, he has absolutely no wish to.

Alfred has fashioned himself the hero and has come through on his promise with remarkable regularity — he is courageous, fair, has a heart made of gold for all his faults (dear as he is to Francis, he is still as fallible as any other country, as any other man). To see such a bastion of strength fall would be utterly dispiriting.

Perhaps, for once, the hero is in need of a hero himself?

_Enter Francis, stage right._

"Come," he says, throwing an arm around Alfred's shoulders and leading him out into the hall. "You must eat something, dear boy, you will feel better when you do. Though what there is to eat in this atrocious city that won't _completely_ offend your sense of taste, I have no idea."

"You know, maybe it _was _stupid of me to think that he…"

"Non, none of that, mon cher," Francis quickly demands. "Not now. Enjoy your lunch first. It is never advisable to wage war or make love on an empty stomach. Go, clear your head."

He gives Alfred an encouraging look before he leaves — which is to say, big brother Francis has a plan.

If he does not know London quite like the back of his hand, he at least knows it well enough to get by, and he knows Arthur even better. Francis can think of a few good places he would run off to during their lunch break, and finding him will be the easy part. The tricky part has always been getting Arthur to take him seriously.

_L'histoire de ma vie,_ he thinks, and imagines it bound in the finest leather, a silk ribbon marking this particular moment.

.

**Author's notes (please feel free to skip):**

This chapter is silly and riddled with cliches, but it felt right at the time! :') I blame it on this being my first Hetalia fanfiction. I didn't know what I was doing, I just knew I had to write it. But I think this chapter also serves it's purpose: The war affected every nation present and they saw so much shit during the war that now they just want to get things back to normal - which includes squabbling and showing off during a meeting, which is why they temporarily reverted back to calling each other by their nation names rather than their personal names. And, Arthur needs to see a more serious side of Alfred come out if he's ever going to take him and his declarations of love seriously. I was going for a kind of "hidden depths" vibe in this chapter, which is why I picked Denmark and Poland to be the nations to counter Arthur when he scolded them for not taking the meeting seriously, and America to give a shot of hope at the end when they're all feeling less than optimistic about the UN's future.

*Not that many historical notes this time! Just that the first meeting of the United Nations General Assembly was held in London on January 10, 1946 and 51 nations were present. It felt really awkward to use the term "weapons of mass destruction" in a story that takes place in the '40s, but I found out that despite its recent vogue, the term is actually older than I assumed. Apparently the first use of the term was by the Archbishop of Canterbury in 1937 regarding the bombing of Guernica during the Spanish Civil War.

*The president Alfred is referring to is Abe "the Babe" Lincoln.

*"Do not go gentle into that good night,/Old age should burn and rave at close of day;/Rage, rage against the dying of the light" from Welsh poet Dylan Thomas' _Do not go gentle into that good night_

*_l'histoire de ma vie_ (hopefully) translates into "the story of my life"


	8. Chapter 8

**London Bridge**

.

Chapter Eight

Every time Arthur visits Westminster Abbey — damaged during the war but still so beautiful to him — he learns something new about himself. Today, he realizes he has always taken great comfort in the company of the dead.

Dead men tell no tales, nor do they need to. Arthur remembers everything.

He walks past the tomb of The Unknown Warrior and pauses to say a prayer, as he always does when he visits the abbey. He remembers: Once a body had been selected to represent all his unknown dead _("General Wyatt, would you be so kind as to choose which boy it is to be? I…I cannot bring myself to do it. He gave himself up for me, yet I cannot even do this for him. Silly, isn't it?"),_ he stayed by his brave soldier's side throughout the long journey home from France.

He walks and remembers, feels the hum of the past thrum louder with each step.

_I think you live too much in the past, old man,_ Steven had said, and God help him, but it's true. The older he gets, the greater the shadow his past casts over his present. (Some men live for the promise of tomorrow, but Arthur Kirkland is not one of those men. He swears by the solidity of the immoveable past.)

His artists, philosophers, kings, queens, warmongers, pacifists — so many of them are here, if not in body, then in memoriam. He feels a great, sad comfort in knowing they are so close by, as though they had never left him — a twist to the right and there's Newton, a glance to the left and there's Pitt the Younger. His people will not be silenced, forever ensuring his past will not be forgotten — even in death they honor him. Though they are all gone, he remains, bolstered by their unquiet, uncommon vitality.

_I remain. Even one such as I remains…_

He walks until he finds the Coronation Chair, and remembers that before it belonged to a saint, it belonged to a nation.

He remembers being lifted into the chair when he was a child, men kneeling before him and promising to protect him as long as there was breath in their bodies. They gave him a heavy sword he couldn't lift and placed a simple diadem made of crude metal upon his head. Their seriousness and their spellbound attention made him uncomfortable, made him squirm.

_Do they know that when I first met Rome he was so unimpressed with me that he didn't even spare me a backwards glance? _his child-self thought at the time. _Do they realize I have holes in my socks? Gold and silver I have none, I have none…_

Throughout the years it becomes a ceremony, a formality, but before the men and women who would be king and queen are publicly crowned in _his_ chair (wearing _his_ crown and ermine cape, grasping _his_ orb and scepter), they pledge a secret fealty to _him._ The men are always as serious as ever, but Arthur's youthful awkwardness soon transformed into a ready acceptance.

He leans forward in his chair to rest steady hands on his new monarch's shaking shoulders, lays a kiss upon their head, blesses them. During the public crowning and investment of regalia, his whispered words thrum in every new sovereign's ear: _Never forget that I want you to bring me glory. I want everyone on this green earth to know my name._

_I want, I want…_

_What the bloody hell do I want?_ he thinks, gingerly sitting in the old chair. He sinks into it, closes his eyes and wonders, fleetingly, if this is what coming home feels like.

_What was it I wanted all this time? What was it I chased after all these years? I have taken and taken and still come up empty. To have everything and still yearn for something more…if my people knew what a fool I was, what a fool I am. I live in the past but I grow weary of the dead. I fear I am becoming one of them._

It is a quiet Thursday afternoon, a rather uneventful time in the life of a church. Fashionable footsteps easily clip through the silence.

"And you call _me_ vain, Angleterre," Francis says, coming into view. He sighs dramatically, as though he has spent hours looking for Arthur, though in reality the abbey was the first place he thought to look. "To spend so much time in a place like this, it is like looking in a mirror, non?"

"It was simply a quiet place to get away from all that ridiculous nonsense," Arthur snaps, "and it wasn't too far a walk from the Hall."

Francis inclines his head forward, raises his eyebrows. "I am a lot of things, but I am not stupid."

He knows this is Arthur's favorite place to think, his first refuge when he is upset about something. What's more, Arthur knows that he knows this.

Arthur frowns and looks away, pulls his pea coat tighter around his body.

"I'm surprised you didn't burst into flames upon stepping foot in here," he mutters. "It _is_ a church, after all."

"I am going to be the better man and ignore that comment, as I have as much right to stand here as you. Though you own the church and the land beneath it, you do not own all the people or all the memories, you greedy bastard."

He hates it when Francis has a point.

(He's come to grudgingly accept that Francis will always be a constant in his life. They are flames from the same fire, always dancing around each other, and though the intensity of the taunting may lessen, the fire itself shall never be extinguished.)

Arthur traces patterns on the arm of the chair with the tips of his fingers. "I always did think Catherine of Valois was rather lovely."

Francis watches Arthur for a moment, then takes a seat on the steps next to the chair. "I am unsure how sincere you are being…but I will grant you that her great-great granddaughter was very pretty as well."

They have their whole lives to argue, and the worst insults have already passed. (Francis does not really like the word _hate,_ and he has only ever used it in reference to a person once.) Nowadays, their silences are generally like this one: Inexplicably companionable, if still a little cautious. Arthur wonders if their younger selves would ever have believed they'd end up like this, if it would have saved them a few wars or, at the very least, that duel of theirs on the Field of the Cloth of Gold.

_Having guided my horse, my hand, my lance, so well…No, if anything, it would have propelled us to fight even harder to ensure such a future never came to fruition. That sweet enemy, France._

"I feel bad for you, mon ami," Francis sighs. "So much immaturity at the meeting, when you had obviously prepared so hard. Old habits, or just old personalities?"

He chuckles and glances knowingly at Arthur out of the corner of his eye.

"You are paler than usual," he suddenly notes. "Have you had lunch yet?"

"I'm not particularly hungry."

"A two hour break for lunch, and you are not going to eat? Mon Dieu, not at _all?" _At this, Francis unleashes a barrage of dramatic French curses.

"In English, if you please."

_"You stupid man!_ You probably did not eat breakfast, either. You know I worry when people do not eat!"

Arthur shrugs his shoulders and grins, delightfully smug. "Knowing is not the same as caring."

Francis huffs and crosses his arms. Old habits, or just old personalities?

"Angleterre…" he begins after a few quiet moments, and hides his hesitancy behind a smile. "We are friends, oui?"

Arthur scoffs. "We most certainly are _not."_

"Ah, and yet we are always together!"

"Never of my own volition, and don't you _dare_ go spreading rumors to the contrary."

Francis places a hand over his heart. "I am all astonishment, Angleterre! Surely if the two of us are not friends by now, then what are we?"

Arthur rubs at his eyes. "You are like a disease to me, one I cannot find the cure to."

"What about you and Port?"

"That is merely political. The enemy of my enemy and what-have-you."

"There is Marie."

"She — " At the sound of her name, his heart melts. "I've promised to protect her, but we are not, unfortunately, as close as — as I would wish us to be."

"And your Commonwealth?"

"They all respect me, I think, but they don't…that is to say, I do not believe…"

Angrily, Arthur turns to look at him. Francis always _did_ have a sneaky way of drawing things out from him, things he never intended to reveal.

"Now see _here,_ frog! Just what are you trying to — "

"And Amérique?"

Arthur opens his mouth to speak, but no words come.

_Never have I from the first,_ Dickens whispers from the Poets' Corner, _and never shall I to the last, regard your part in my life but as something sacred, never to be lightly thought of, never to be esteemed enough, never, until death, to be forgotten._

Arthur shakes his head.

_For I, not daring to love, in my inadequateness_, Chaucer echoes, _compared it to a quenchless fire, the more it burns the more is its desire_._ If no love is, O God, what feel I so?_

Arthur tries to coax the words out, but still, they refuse him.

Francis smiles softly. "You are that boy's rock, you know."

Arthur groans. "Don't tell me you're involved in this."

"Except for a few minor, ah, _disagreements_ here and there, Amérique and I have always been close. And if it involves you, mon ami, then I feel obligated, bien sûr."

Arthur finds himself extremely curious, several questions jumping to the tip of his tongue, but he pushes them to the back of his throat.

"My life is none of your bleeding business," he mumbles instead.

"I hope you will not mind, but I told him a story about you."

Arthur's eyes widen.

"Oh, do not look at me like that. Your face will surely stay that way, and _then_ who will be the frog, hmm?" He grins and continues in a sing-song voice: "It was just a story about when we were children." He leans back and rests his elbows on the step behind him.

_"Francis…"_

"I told him about after Hastings."

Instantly, Arthur leaps out of his chair.

_"Why_ would you _do_ that?!" he yells, shaking Francis by the lapels of his coat. "You were never to mention that to _anyone,_ you bloody gormless idiot! You _swore!"_

"Because the boy is so in love with you, _that_ is why!" Francis shouts, roughly shoving Arthur off him.

He tosses an errant lock of hair out of his eyes.

"He _deserved_ to know. And that is how I was assured of his love for you — because he has been the only one who has _ever_ deserved to hear that story."

Arthur takes a step back and stumbles onto the step below him. He can do nothing but stare at Francis, shocked. He opens his mouth but, yet again, words fail him.

Eventually he moves to sit beside Francis, dumping his weight down as though they were back in the trenches, as though he had just come back from patrol, as though Francis were offering him a drink from his flask.

Arthur remembers everything. During la Terreur, France swore the voices in his head were real. Rome was bedridden with fever for weeks after Vesuvius obliterated Pompeii. Turkey developed violent migraines after the earthquake at Antioch.

And after the Battle of Hastings, England went blind.

.

**Author's notes (please feel free to skip):**

*The first meeting of the UN General Assembly was held in Westminster Central Hall, just across the street from Westminster Abbey. It's funny - when I first wrote this story for the Kink Meme, I had never been to London and didn't know exactly how far apart the two were. But then I spent the best month of my life in London this summer, and when I realized how close they were...well, let's just say Google maps didn't do it justice! Lol.

*Westminster Abbey! I actually visited it on a Thursday afternoon, and it was pretty bustling. OH THE THINGS YOU LEARN once you finally visit the places you write about. But it's _fiction,_ and for dramatic purposes we can pretend that Arthur and Francis were the only ones in there at that moment in 1946, save for maybe one or two members of staff, can't we? : )

*King Edward's Chair. If you've seen _The King's Speech, _you'll know which chair we're talking about.

*Catherine of Valois was Henry V's French wife. After he died, she may or may not have married a Welshman named Owen Tudor (there's no evidence that they were married, but there's also not any evidence showing that they _weren't_). Through their children they founded the Tudor dynasty. Catherine's great-great-granddaughter was Elizabeth I.

*Field of the Cloth of Gold. Basically, King Henry VIII (of England) and King Francis I (of France) having a huge pissing contest in 1520 to flaunt their wealth and try to out-do each other. But pimpin' ain't easy and it ended badly (the Italian War of 1521-1526).

*"Having guided my horse, my hand, my lance, so well…" and "That sweet enemy, France" are from sonnet 41 of Sir Philip Sidney's _Astrophel and Stella_.

*Dickens' _Dombey and Son._

*"For I, not daring to love, in my inadequateness…" and "If no love is, O God, what feel I so?" are from Chaucer's _Troilus and Criseyde_. "…compared it to a quenchless fire, the more it burns the more is its desire" is from the Wife of Bath's prologue in the _Canterbury Tales._


	9. Chapter 9

**London Bridge**

.

Chapter Nine

No one is watching the boy as he looks for seashells along the beach, barefoot and his trousers rolled up to his knees.

He has trained himself to prefer it this way. He has taught himself not to covet attention, since everyone seems so keen on withholding it in the first place. He demands of himself not to yearn for it, not to cry out in the middle of the night for it. (This youth to whom was given so much of earth and such impetuous blood — he cannot know that when he is older, people will not be able to take their eyes off him.)

* * *

Young Arthur feels called by the sea, can hear his name whispered in every wave, feel his blood pulse with every crash upon the rocks.

But this is his secret: He also feels betrayed by his fickle mistress, and the sting of betrayal's bitter taste is not easily forgotten.

The sea is his natural boundary, his most assured way of keeping people out _(I do not care what they think,_ the thick ocean around his young heart echoes, _nor do I desire their company or even the knowledge of their existence)_, and yet every century or so a new group of people sail across the ocean to occupy him, try to erase his history rather than expand it.

If the water will not keep others out, he decides, then he must take up the task himself — but he is, unfortunately, at that awkward stage of existence for a nation where he has formed and solidified his identity but cannot always physically act upon it. He dreams of the day when it is _he_ who masters the sea, when it is _he_ who sails across the ocean and changes history.

One day he will dispense measure for measure, fire for fire.

But for today, he contents himself with seashells.

* * *

Arthur can hear the rocks settling on the cliffs behind him, and thinks nothing of it when a stray pebble bounces off his back. But he angrily reels around when a succession of larger, harder rocks hit him.

A tall boy with a wild crop of blond hair proudly stands before him atop one of the crags, arms crossed over his broad chest and smug smile fixed on his face, hailing Arthur as the Colossus of Rhodes must have hailed travelers in the days of antiquity.

He's growing too big and too quickly for his clothes to keep up; they stretch tightly over his body and emphasize his boyishly bulging muscles (though Arthur is fairly certain this was no accident, as Christian can never resist the urge to show off). Arthur doesn't like the boy because he smiles too much — a smile that dares, and then a pounce always follows after. They have known each other for years, and Arthur always thinks of him as That Danish Buffoon.

"Stop," Arthur orders, and ducks when another rock is thrown at his head.

"Don't ignore me!" he screeches. "I said stop that this instant, you idiot!"

Christian laughs and bats at the air with his hand. "Aw, don't get so upset, pipsqueak! I'm just tryin' to make a man outta ya."

He slides off his perch and strolls over to Arthur. He sniffs and rubs his nose, vaguely interested. "Whatcha doin'?"

Arthur turns away. "Leave me alone."

"I'll leave ya alone if ya tell me what you're doin'."

"I'm looking for seashells."

_"Pfft_ — who cares about seashells?"

"I need to crush some for a spell."

Christian digs at the sand with the tip of his shoe.

"You'll find more with two pairs of eyes," he offers.

"I can find them just_ fine_ on my _own," _Arthur says through clenched teeth.

Christian feels around in his pocket for the biggest rock he has and takes his time aiming at the back of Arthur's head. But Arthur, wary of any silence in the vicinity of Christian, turns and ducks at the last moment, the rock missing his head by mere inches.

"Why, _you_ — !" Arthur runs and launches himself at Christian, tackling the bigger boy to the ground only through the surprise and sheer angry force of his attack.

Christian easily flips Arthur and straddles his back, one hand pushing his face down into the wet sand.

"Eat dirt, little baby!" he crows triumphantly. "How's it taste? Ya want some salt with that?"

"Gerroff!" Arthur gasps, spitting out sand when he can. "Idiot — _bastard_ — "

Christian grins down at him, and Arthur can almost _feel_ how wide his smile is, how large his teeth are.

"I admire your spunk, pip — really, I do! — but this'll teach ya to choose your battles, won't it?"

Arthur continues to struggle beneath Christian's bulk, but eventually, mercifully, his hold lessens and Arthur is able to scramble out from under him.

"I — you — I am going to _kill you!"_ he huffs, wiping wet sand from his face. His simple, functional clothes _(just a nicer way to say "horribly unrefined,"_ he sadly thinks) are ruined.

Arthur looks up at Christian expectantly, as it's unlike him not to get the last word in, and sees a strange expression settle across his features, one he has never seen before — confusion crossed with wonder. His eyes look out beyond Arthur and the beach — out toward the sea.

Arthur turns and sees what Christian sees — ships. Hundreds of them, more than either boy has ever seen in his life.

Arthur's eyes widen. "But…but I thought my king was fighting your lot in the north?"

"Those aren't mine or Erik's ships," Christian says, suddenly wary.

"Then who — ?"

Christian starts to back away. "I ain't about to stay and find out, but you have fun, pip."

"Wait!" Arthur cries as he watches Christian run off. "Don't just run away, coward!"

He turns his eyes back to the ships, their numbers growing larger by the minute, and wonders what the sea is bringing him _this_ time.

Arthur grabs his boots and his cloak and runs to hide behind one of the larger crags.

* * *

The people disembarking from the ships do not look like any he has ever seen before. He does not like their accents — far too smooth and persuasive to be trusted. They drag out their supplies from the ships, and it is as Arthur expected: If they are so well-prepared for battle, then they have also come to conquer.

Young Arthur's anxiety dissolves as a familiar fire churns in his belly. This is another secret of his: He has let all the fiery anger born of rejection and despair fester in his heart for so long that even the ocean, with all her might, could not extinguish it — and he would fight her to hold on to it even if she tried.

* * *

As far as he can deduce, their leader is a man named Guillaume. A boy not much older than himself follows after this Guillaume, is constantly attached to his side.

Arthur gasps, for he recognizes one of his own — whoever this Guillaume is, wherever he is from, he must be terribly important, for he has brought his nation with him.

Arthur frowns.

_Why did Harold not take me with him to fight the Vikings, and yet this boy gets to come along with his Guillaume? I would probably just get in the way during a battle, but that boy doesn't look like he would be of much use in a fight, either. What makes him so special?_

Arthur finds he cannot take his eyes off the nation except to compare himself to the boy.

The boy moves with a grace seemingly beyond his years; Arthur looks down at his own gangly limbs and the scrapes on his knees. The boy's hair shines in the sun and looks soft to the touch, especially so considering he has just come from a voyage at sea; Arthur brings a hand to his hair and pulls a tendril of seaweed from it. The boy is dressed in fine, ornate clothes and wears rings and a necklace; Arthur's plain rags are muddied beyond repair now thanks to Christian, and his threadbare green cloak is covered with patches he has sewn on himself, some stitches neater than others.

The fire churns in his belly again, the anger this time directed toward himself.

_Harold was right to leave me behind. What a pair this Guillaume and his nation make, side by side! I would never make Harold look so fine. He would never be so proud to show me off._

* * *

As fascinating as this new nation is, he is still the enemy. Arthur immediately decides he must travel north to find his king and warn him of these invaders, soiled clothes or no. The journey north is long and dull, but thankfully the good weather keeps. A robin accompanies him along the way, chirping merrily and bringing him berries to eat.

He finds Harold and his men in good spirits, for they have defeated the Vikings so soundly that it would be a great surprise if they ever returned. They are making their way south and have taken temporary residence in a small village; Arthur finds Harold in the stables, tending to his horse.

He nervously trips over his words as he explains the situation. He tugs at the edge of his shirt and remembers the way the men leered at him, as though they already knew why he was there.

_Oh, why must I be the one to tell him this?_ he agonizes. _They will all surely hate me for bringing them such awful, horrible news, and I have a hole in my boot…_

"It is as I expected," Harold gravely says after assessing Arthur's information. "William is a bastard not only by birth but also by disposition."

"What do you mean?"

"The man you saw — his name is William — is the duke of a land across the sea called Normandy. He seeks our throne and has brought all those men with him so that he may take it by force. His claims to any ownership of it, however, are built upon lies and fabrications, though his people believe him."

"But it belongs to _you!_ They cannot do that!" Arthur cries, and thinks: _Not again._

"He is certainly going to try, young Master, if all those battle armaments you saw are any indication."

Harold, lost in thought, strokes his beard for a few quiet moments before returning to his horse. Arthur watches him and is miserable.

He remembers the nation he saw with William — now there, _there_ is someone worth fighting for. His good, excellent people are always fighting for him (and there is always a battle raging somewhere) though he cannot offer them much in return, and as Harold forbids him to enter into battle, he cannot even defend them.

_I followed Rome willingly…all of this was my fault from the start._

Arthur makes a strangled sound and begins to cry into his dirty hands. Harold turns in surprise.

"Are we never to be left in peace?" Arthur laments through his tears. "You and your men just finished beating the Vikings, and now this? You are all too hungry and tired and injured to fight any more. Why can't they see that? Why can't they just _leave us be?_ All we want is to be allowed to live our lives, and surely that is not too much to ask for? And — and why must we be _allowed_ anything? It is not for _anyone_ to give us what is already _ours!"_

Harold gently smiles and rests his large hand atop Arthur's head, much as he did to his sons when they were young.

"I thank you for traveling all this way to warn me about the dangers awaiting us, young Master. I know how heavy a burden it must have been for you, how arduous your journey. You are most loyal and steadfast, and I appreciate your efforts beyond all measure." He brings his hand to cup Arthur's wet cheek. "You have done well, little Pendragon."

Arthur stares up at him with his large child eyes. Harold knows he can ill afford to be sentimental during times like these, but...

He kneels before Arthur and rests his hands on the boy's thin shoulders.

"I want you to know," he whispers, "that no matter what happens, I am honored and proud to be your king."

Arthur doubts this. He has not yet bathed and surely Harold can see he needs to wipe his nose? He awkwardly shuffles his feet but does not give voice to his fears. Even if Harold refuted every single one of them, it would not stop them from intruding into his mind (there is always a battle raging somewhere) any more than it could stop them from being true.

"What do you mean, no matter what happens?"

Harold swallows and reaches up to gently ruffle Arthur's hair.

"You must promise me something, young Master. In the times ahead, no matter how hard your trials or how afraid you are, you must be brave and show them your teeth. Never forget who you are, for I and all your people know you have a great destiny ahead of you."

* * *

Harold, of course, forbids Arthur to come to Hastings, but Arthur remembers Harold's call for bravery and slings his quiver of arrows onto his back. He finds it is far easier to sneak onto a battlefield than he had imagined.

The battlefield, this place of skulls, both enthralls him and horrifies him. He can hear the land beneath them groan under the weight of this great sin, this awesome defilement, grieving over the unreturning brave. The earth itself seems to be a belligerent in the battle, swallowing up men and horses without discrimination, batting them around like playthings. (After nine hundred years, neither people nor warfare nor the earth will have changed much.)

But nature never did betray the heart that loved her, and Arthur finds it easy enough to fall into a routine: He at first takes cover behind the crumpled body of a dead farmer and aims his arrows with shaking hands. When he runs out of arrows he moves quickly and gathers more, pulling them from the dead bodies. He hides behind another corpse — a knight, or a blacksmith — and repeats. His hands shake less after every round.

After nine hours of fighting, he is utterly exhausted and cannot be sure which side is winning. There are reports that the Bastard has died, all of which are proven false. This revelation gives the Normans a boost of morale, which they take exceeding advantage of.

The din of battle is lessening, and the brunt of the fighting has fragmented. Arthur is gathering arrows when a horse comes upon him, and he screams as it nearly tramples him. The rider steadies the horse and removes his helmet.

"Do not be frightened, young Master, 'tis I," Harold says, worried but disbelieving. "What are you doing? You ought not to be here!"

"I'm sorry, I only — I just — "

"Come," Harold says, leaning in his saddle and holding out his hand. "Quickly now! I must take you to safety!"

Arthur places his tiny hand in Harold's and makes to jump up into the saddle, but Harold's grip lessens and his hand slips completely from Arthur's. Arthur looks up and watches helplessly as Harold falls off his horse.

Arthur quickly dashes about, trying to free Harold's feet from the stirrups as the horse panics around him. Eventually he manages to free Harold, and the horse runs off.

Coming to Harold's side, Arthur sees that an arrow has pierced him through his eye. Horrified, Arthur can only stare in silent, complete shock.

A gurgled sigh escapes Harold's still lips, and — fish.

_Fish? What have fish to do with anything?_

(Later Arthur will realize he was reminded, in that awful moment, of catching fish in the river and watching the last trickles of water escape from their yawning lips.)

Harold's last words are a broken whisper: "Show them…your teeth…"

_Oh, no — no, no, no — it's not supposed to be like this — not — no, never — he was a great man, he can't be dead, he shouldn't have died for me — I am not worth this — I have holes in my boots and seaweed in my hair — why would they shoot a king near the end of the battle and let an embarrassment like me live —_

A great black curtain suddenly envelopes Arthur. He rubs his eyes and blinks repeatedly but the darkness remains. He holds his hands out before him and squints, tries to find them, tries to _see_ them rather than _feel_ them. But his movements feel as though he were underwater, as though the sea had risen up and consumed him within her mysterious depths, cut him off from everything — what is it that awaits beyond the shallow end — what is it this time — what is the sea bringing him —

He pulls at his hair and screams before collapsing, his small frame draping across Harold's in a final stained embrace.

* * *

It is the boy Arthur saw with William on the beach — his name is Francis — who finds Arthur sometime later.

Francis looks out onto the battlefield and gags, brings his handkerchief to his nose. This is haunted, holy ground; he can feel the ghost of Rome sweep over the battlefield, and shudders. Rome was always kind to him, and during good times the streets often ran red with wine — but he can never forget when they ran red with blood during the bad times.

Francis wonders at the inheritance Rome left to him, to all of their kind — and also wonders why things can't be different, why things must always be done in this barbaric manner. His greatest wish is simply for everyone to get along and be happy. And he hopes, really and truly hopes, all the way deep down past his bones and to the very corners of his child soul, that _this_ is why Guillaume really came here.

_Perhaps these people across the sea need help? Can we take care of them and give them better lives? That is why we are here, oui?_

(He has a feeling, somehow, that he should know better than this — _"Francis, get your head out of the clouds and listen to me for once, why do you think I demanded so many ships?"_ — but ignores it. He does not wish to waste time on such horrid thoughts, or consider at what price Rome's favor came.)

Someone is moaning close by. He looks out but sees nothing, no movement. He hears the sound again and tries walking toward it.

The moans lead him to a small green lump strewn across a warrior's chest. At first he thought it was the warrior who was making the noises, but Francis is glad that one is already out of his misery.

_An arrow through the eye — Mère de Dieu, what a horrible way to give up the ghost!_

Francis leans over to inspect the lump, hesitantly reaching out and pulling away the green fabric, but he quickly pulls his hand back and clasps it over his mouth in shock.

_Mon Dieu, c'est un petit garçon! Goodness! But what is a little boy doing out on a battlefield? Was this dead man his papa?_

He turns the boy over and inspects his body — he has blood on him and a few wounds, but nothing that seems fatal.

The boy, obviously still alive, moans again and Francis nervously jumps back. He wrings his hands and bites his lip, for he knows he has an important decision to make, and quickly.

If he leaves the boy for Guillaume or one of his men to find, there's no telling what they might do to him. He _could_ simply take the boy with him, even though he is from the enemy side. Guillaume is a hard man, it's true, but he has never denied Francis anything, and Francis feels drawn to the boy, somehow. He cannot say exactly why, other than it must be fate.

Still, though Guillaume might indulge him, one of his men might act on their own and snatch the boy away in the middle of the night…

Francis hears soldiers coming closer. He makes his decision — he gathers the boy in his arms and heads back to their camp.

* * *

At the camp, a few soldiers ask questions of Francis and the bloody bundle of a boy he carries, but Guillaume silences him with only a hard look. By the time they reach their castle, no one takes it for anything out of the ordinary.

He takes the boy to his own room and lays him on the soft bed, asking a servant to prepare the bed warmer, and to also bring rags, hot water, and a change of clothes for the boy. He also requests that some broth and fresh bread be brought to him after an hour or so. The servant does as he is told and makes sure there is nothing more he can do before quitting the room entirely.

Francis begins gently undressing the boy down to his undergarment, dropping his clothes unceremoniously to the floor, and sets about washing him.

* * *

Arthur can feel himself floating closer to consciousness as Francis washes him, can feel the sea receding. The waves are still lapping at him, and his skin tickles when the air kisses the water off it.

But — no — something is not right. Rather than the smell of salt, lavender fills his nostrils —

He becomes suddenly aware of his nakedness. His eyelids fly open.

"Ah, I am so glad you are awake!" a voice says. "Can you speak? How do you feel?"

He does not like the voice, it is far too smooth and persuasive to be trusted.

And then, in his darkness, the terrible realization: He has been captured by the Normans.

He shouts and thrashes, and Francis holds his shoulders.

"Wait!" Francis cries, trying to make the boy understand. "It's alright, I won't hurt you! You're safe!"

In his panic, Arthur flails violently and finally breaks free of Francis' grasp. He tumbles off the bed and begins feeling his way around the cold floor. He comes across his clothes and, discerning they are in fact his own, gathers them in his arms.

Francis cannot pull his gaze away from the boy — _Is he mad? _— and watches with wide eyes and parted lips. The boy continues crawling, feeling the floor, until he stumbles upon a wall. He unsteadily rises to his feet and clings to the wall, feeling along it as he moves, until he reaches a corner. With a whimper he slides to the floor, hunched over and cradling his head. Francis can hear him crying.

Francis' heart goes out to the boy, but he has not an inkling of what he should do in this situation.

Eventually he grabs the clean clothes the servant left and slowly walks toward the boy.

The boy snaps his head up; he can hear Francis' shoes tapping against the floor.

_Why doesn't he look me in the eye? _Francis wonders._ Is he feral? Has he never had any human contact before?_

"You are English, oui? I promise not to harm you," he says, as gently as he can. "Here, I got you some clean clothes."

The boy ignores him and feels around on the floor, as though remembering his own dirty clothes. He fumbles with them and begins dressing himself.

Francis watches for a few moments before quietly leaning closer. He waves his hand in front of the boy's face, but sees no reaction.

The realization hits him with so much force and shocks him so completely that he stumbles backward and trips over his own two feet, landing on his bottom: This scarred child is, in fact, no child at all — he is a _nation_, and he is neither mad nor feral, but _blind._

Francis stares in wonder for quite some time. And, _oh,_ how his young heart swells and aches for the boy — he remembers where he found him, and remembers the reports he heard at the camp of how the English king died.

"Right now you are in a Norman castle," he explains, "but don't worry, I will make sure you are safe and properly cared for. My name is Francis. What is yours?"

The boy is silent. Francis can see a vein in his neck flutteringly wildly.

"I was trying to give you a wash and clean up your wounds, but I think you might still have some I didn't get to. If you'll just let me see — " He reaches out and touches the boy's shoulder, but the boy shrinks back from his touch as though his hand were on fire.

Francis rises and impatiently stomps his foot.

"I just want to help you!" he yells. "But if you are going to insist on being a brat, then _fine,_ I refuse to help you anymore!" He crosses his arms and sticks his nose in the air. "I was going to ask if you wanted to sleep in my bed with me — it's soft and clean and probably better than anything you're used to — but you can _forget it!_ Freeze on the floor for all I care!"

* * *

The rest of the week follows in a similar manner.

Francis tries to engage the boy but Arthur only cries and sleeps. He refuses to eat the food Francis leaves for him, or change into the clean clothes. Francis has tried picking him up and carrying him to the bed, but the boy fights and struggles and utterly refuses to leave his corner.

Francis notices he seems especially attached to his green cloak; often the boy curls in on himself and pulls it up over his head, hiding away from the world completely.

One day, while Arthur is sleeping, Francis carefully peels the cloak off him and has it washed and mended. He finds Arthur awake when he returns to his room, and drapes the clean cloak over him.

"If you are not going to wear the clothes I set out for you," he says, "then perhaps you can at least let me wash your own clothes for you? I promise you'll feel much better in a clean set of clothes."

Francis doesn't expect a reply, nor does Arthur give him one. But after that, Arthur stops crying.

* * *

Francis cannot stay in his room all day, and when he leaves he locks the door behind him.

"It is not so much to keep you in, mon ami, as it is to keep others out," he explains to the ever quiet Arthur. "There are English prisoners and hostages in the castle, and I don't want you mistaken for one."

But one day two young squires break into his room. They've heard that Francis — who thinks himself so far above everyone else, who likes to look down his nose at them all, just because he's Guillaume's favorite — has a dirty English boy in his room and they are so curious about him they simply can't stand it.

When Francis returns to his room, he finds the two boys hunched over Arthur, poking and prodding him as though he were a common insect.

Francis angrily shouts at the boys and literally kicks them out of his room.

"Are you alright?" he asks as soon as the door is shut and locked and he's alone with Arthur. "I'm so sorry about those two, truly I am! I promise you they will never bother you again, and if I have anything to say about it, they can wave their dreams of becoming knights goodbye. I only went out to — "

"Thank you."

Francis stares. "What did you say?"

"I said thank you…for defending me. And my name is Arthur."

"You are very welcome, Arthur," Francis says after a dumbfounded moment. He never thought he'd hear the boy speak. "Think nothing of it."

Though he is not happy, a grateful Arthur smiles.

* * *

In the weeks that follow, Francis and Arthur are inseparable.

Arthur, still not having recovered his eyesight, is completely dependent on Francis. Francis, for his part, refuses to let anyone else take care of Arthur, taking to his new role as big brother like a fish to water.

(Big brother is a nicer name for it. Arthur is still unaware that William was crowned King of England in Westminster Abbey. When he finds out, when he finds out about _everything_ —

Well. Francis prefers not to think about that.)

* * *

Ah, happy years! Once more, who would not be a boy?

Francis and Arthur can always be found together throughout the castle, hand in hand, and most of the castle's inhabitants are amused by their odd but happy friendship.

(William himself looks on and considers it an experiment — will all the natives be so easy to break?)

Sometimes Arthur has nightmares and clings to Francis, whose quiet humming and lavender perfume sooth him back to sleep. Arthur never thanks him outright for this, but if he squeezes Francis' hand a little tighter than usual the next day, neither of them mentions it.

But for as much as Francis cares about Arthur, he bites his lip and knows another important decision looms before him.

They can play together all day long, but they can never escape what they truly are to each other — Arthur has been invaded, taken over, and Francis is his lord and master now. ("Of course we're here to help these people," Guillaume gruffly assured him last night, and then laughed and laughed.) The two young squires have been taunting him lately, saying he spends so much time with Arthur that he is beginning to smell like an English pig. This insult angers Francis beyond all measure, but he is also inordinately fond of Arthur and doesn't want to lose his friendship.

Still, the boy will not stay blind forever. Francis wrings his hands and wonders how to break the news to him, wonders why he can never find a way to make everyone happy. Francis hates conflict of any kind and is not a fighter, never has been and never will be — unlike Arthur, the boy he found baptized with blood. And Francis admires that about him. He imagines that while in Rome, Arthur never did as the Romans did. But how can he possibly convince a born fighter that surrender is his best (and only) option?

* * *

"You should learn to like irises," he tells Arthur one day. They are having a picnic in a flower field far away from the castle. Francis watches as Arthur eats an apple and notes the color has come back into his cheeks.

_The color is coming back into his cheeks and he is getting stronger,_ Francis frets. _Those who would free themselves must strike the blow, and it is not going to end well when he finds out the truth._

"Irises and lilies are my favorites," he continues. "White lilies for purity and the iris for good news. I do _so_ love good news!"

"Roses are much better."

"Like these?" Francis picks a rose and holds it up to Arthur's nose. Arthur inhales deeply, hoping he'll be able to see roses again one day.

"There are so many different colors of roses, though," Francis continues. "Which ones do you like the best?"

Arthur hesitates. "…Red."

"Ah, the red for true love!"

"Well…white roses are also very nice."

"I heard a story about the white rose once," Francis says, and begins the story in a whisper: "They say that the rose growing in the Garden of Eden was white, but it turned red with shame when it saw Adam and Eve in their nakedness."

Francis giggles and pokes at Arthur's reddening cheeks. "Much like you are doing at this moment!"

Arthur bats his hand away. "Stop that! And don't tell such lewd stories!"

"I am only having some fun, mon ami, only passing the time." He sets something soft on Arthur's head. Arthur imagines it must be a crown of flowers, as he can smell the scent of roses. "There you are! C'est magnifique!"

"Get that off of me, I'm not the May Queen. And don't talk like that."

"Like how?"

"I don't care for your accent," Arthur primly says.

"Sometimes I think you're harsh with me only on principal, Arthur," Francis sighs. "Do you really dislike me that much?"

Arthur hesitates again. "You are tolerable most days."

Francis lies on his stomach and reaches for the grapes. "Besides — " he starts, but his mouth goes dry.

"What?"

"It might be something you should get used to, maybe even learn how to speak like that."

"Why on earth would I ever want to sound like _you?"_

"Well, it's not a bad way of speaking, first of all!" Francis shouts, unable to hide his pride in himself, his people, and his land.

He awkwardly clears his throat.

"And second," he continues once he manages to get himself and his conflicting emotions under control, "now that this country's been invaded, there's going to be many changes. It would be easier for you not to resist."

"Not to resist?" Arthur laughs. "You say that as though you were the one in charge!"

Francis rests his chin in his hand and looks away. He doesn't have the heart to pursue it any further.

Arthur asks for another apple and Francis reaches to put one in his hand.

"Do you ever wear any other scent except lavender?"

"Do you not like it?" Francis asks, worried. "You have never complained about it before."

"It's not that I don't like it," Arthur says, his lips quirking up into a small smile. "It just makes you seem boring, to wear the same thing every single day."

"See! That's exactly what I meant!" Francis shouts, waving an indignant finger Arthur can't see. "You probably don't even _mean_ that, you brat, you only say things like that to be contrary on purpose!"

But Arthur is giggling happily, and Francis, joining him, can't stay offended for long.

"Well," he continues after they catch their breaths, "you could use a little of my lavender water yourself. But at least you finally started letting me wash your clothes for you. I still don't see why you don't just wear the clothes I gave you, though."

_He always refuses to wear my Norman clothes, as though he knows our coat of arms is emblazoned on it. He's going to fight Guillaume and all the rest no matter what I say or do._

_Oh, mon ami — is there any chance under the sun we can be friends again one day, when everyone is sick of the fighting?_

He grabs the corner of Arthur's cloak.

"And this cloak — it's so old and worn, and it's been patched up so many times. Why don't you replace it with one of mine that's thicker and warmer?"

Arthur gently tugs his cloak out of Francis' fingers.

"It's the only thing I have left of my mother," he quietly says. "Do you have a mother?"

"I did. But…she's been dead for many years."

"Oh, I'm sorry. But so has mine. And I don't remember much about her, which is odd, because I have a good memory." Arthur smiles and proudly puffs out his chest. "You see I can get around the castle all by myself now."

Francis nods and rolls onto his back.

"She must have loved you very much," he says, and thinks of his own mother, who loved to wear lavender.

Arthur lowers his head.

"I…don't remember if she did or not, but maybe I'm forgetting on purpose. If I have less memories of her to remember, then I shan't be sad." He lifts his head and wrinkles his nose. "Well, that's if I was ever sad about her in the first place, which I'm _not."_

He tenderly strokes the green fabric.

"But I do remember her putting her cloak around me one day, before we were separated, and tearing the bottom off so it wouldn't drag the ground. That was a long time ago, though, and the cloak started to tear and get thin, so I tore off as many whole parts as I could and sewed them onto a new cloak. One day I'll cut this cloak and sew the pieces on to a new one, but only when I have to. It's not something I particularly enjoy doing, though I _am_ becoming rather good with a needle."

"Maybe you can mend some of my shirts when your eyesight comes back."

"I'll only do that because I owe you for taking care of me, but you'll have to wait, because I've already decided what I'm going to do first if my eyesight returns."

"What is that?"

"I'm going to look for my brothers. They're out there, somewhere. We were separated from each other shortly after our mother was lost. But I'm going to find them and we'll all live together again like we used to, because that's how it should be."

"I think you'll always have a place in my house," Francis says, and means it, but the guilt makes him wish he hadn't said anything at all.

_("Francis, get your head out of the clouds.")_

The next morning he wakes later than usual and alone. Next to his pillow he finds a chain of poorly interwoven lilies and irises. Several of the flowers are crushed or broken, and a few daisies were accidentally laced in. Francis doesn't know whether to laugh or cry, and ends up doing a little of both.

Rather than simply wash his face that morning, he dunks his entire head into his water basin. But the two young squires can still see the puffiness around his red eyes and descend upon him without hesitation.

* * *

The morning after that, Arthur's sight returns.

He can feel a hotness on his face, and soon enough realizes it is the sun shining through the window. There's a creamy redness behind his lids, and when he opens them —

His heart stops, drops in his chest, then picks up its pace double time.

Everything is blurry, but he can make out colors and shapes, and his focus is rapidly sharpening.

His first thought is that he must find Francis and tell him the good news. Dear Francis! He has heard him laugh but never seen him smile, and _how_ he will smile when he's told the good news! Surely, even though he is a Norman, he is the very best Norman of them all _(lilies for purity, irises for good news)._

Arthur looks around the room as he dresses. The castle seems to only be a temporary one, made of wood, but Francis' room is extravagantly decorated.

_Is he some sort of noble? If so, he never mentioned it before…and where is my cloak? Perhaps Francis went to have it cleaned again. He has been so good to me, better than a wretch such as I deserves! Once I drive these blasted Normans out and kick that silly nation off my land, I am sure we can find a way to remain friends._

He searches the hallways, and how like a dream it is, to know them so well by touch but not sight! It's like learning something he already knows all over again.

At the end of one hallway he can hear voices coming from the last room to the right.

"Go on, do it," one of the voices says.

"Do it or you're not a _true_ Norman," another says.

The first: "Do it or we'll tell Guillaume you've been smuggling out the English prisoners."

Arthur holds his ear to the door and listens.

The second: "No one likes a liar. No one likes a _traitor."_

Francis: "I _am_ a true Norman, more than either of you know! Here, I'll prove it to you, if you just leave him and me alone for good!"

_Francis?_

"Francis!" Arthur confidently calls through the door, hands on his hips. "I can finally help you take on those two bullies because my sight is back, and surely everyone knows _I'm_ the only one allowed to bully you."

He throws the door open and it bangs loudly against the wall inside the room, startling the three figures before the fireplace.

They each whip their heads around, and Arthur can see he was right about the two squires — he recognized them immediately by their voices. But to his great surprise, there, too, is the nation he saw with the Bastard that day on the beach.

The room smells faintly of lavender. But…where is Francis? Why would the room smell like him if he isn't —

_Oh, no…_

Arthur's smile fades as he looks around the room.

"Where is Francis? I heard his voice." He laughs nervously. "Francis, you ninny! Show yourself, I demand it!"

"Je suis désolé," the nation tells him, his voice breaking. "Je suis navré, je suis vraiment désolé!"

"I don't understand what you're — " Arthur stops and realizes something is burning. He glances at the fireplace. Something was thrown on the fire, something green —

_No, no, no…_

With a scream, Arthur rushes to the fireplace and tries to pluck out his cloak with his bare hands. His flesh burns and blisters but his brain does not even register the pain.

One of the squires grabs him around his waist and pulls him away; the other has the nation — _not his Francis, no, it can't be_ — locked securely in his arms.

"Give me the poker!" Arthur wails, struggling against the larger boy, reaching for the fireplace. "Someone, get me a sword, a stick — something, _anything!"_

When it's all over — when the fire dies out and the two squires are satisfied nothing salvageable remains of the cloak — they release their captives and nonchalantly stroll out of the room. Arthur sees them smile as they leave. Their smiles are horrible, _detestable_ things, all snarled lips and jagged lines of teeth.

Arthur pulls what's left of his cloak out of the fireplace and weeps over it, the soot staining his face.

"Arthur — " Francis reaches out a shaky hand.

_"Don't touch me!"_ Arthur shrieks, and Francis recoils as though Arthur had struck him. "Don't you ever _dare_ touch me again, you — you _bastard!"_

"I'm so sorry — I — "

"Don't apologize, it's insulting." Arthur sniffles and hiccups. "You — you should have _told_ _me._ You should have told me who you _really_ were, instead of making the biggest fool in the world out of me." He shakes his head, utterly inconsolable, completely baffled. "What on _earth_ were you thinking, you fool?"

_I should have known better. No matter how real it felt, he never really cared for me — nobody else cares about a stupid, awkward boy with twigs in his hair and holes in his boots, so why should he?_

_I will always be an embarrassment no one cares about._

The familiar fire churns angrily in his bell. The ocean around his young heart — his natural boundary, his most assured way of keeping people _out,_ keeping people _away_ — rises, for it is high tide.

Arthur reaches into the fireplace and grabs two fistfuls of ash. He walks over to Francis and rubs it in his face and hair, rubs so harshly that Francis chokes when some enters his nose and mouth.

"You are just like all the others," Arthur seethes, "and I despise you _all."_

* * *

A fire spreads that evening and destroys an entire wing of the castle.

All paths lead to it starting from Francis' room.

* * *

Later, a rebellion against the Bastard brews in the north. There are reports a young boy in plain, dirty clothes is leading it.

Francis does not want to accompany Guillaume north to crush the rebellion.

But Guillaume insists.

"I cut off the heads of those two squires who were always such a bother to you because you seem incapable of fighting your own battles. But I won't be around forever, Francis. You will come to the north with me and learn how to defend yourself."

* * *

A thousand years scarce serve to form a state; an hour may lay it in the dust.

Everything (and everyone) is killed with fire. The livestock and food storages are destroyed so that the stragglers will die from starvation; the land is salted so thoroughly that their desperation is assured for years to come.

Francis shudders and feels Rome's presence, just as he did that day on the battlefield.

War, war is still the cry — war even to the knife. He can feel it everywhere now, no longer just on the battlefield. (There is always a battle raging somewhere, and he was never much of a fighter.) As much as he wishes everyone to be happy, Rome was the happiest person he knew, and now he finally understands why.

_Oh, well,_ he thinks as he doubles over and empties his stomach onto the ground. _When in Rome._

* * *

Francis once shuddered to think about Rome's ghost haunting the battlefield at Hastings. Years later he can feel Guillaume's ghost as he and Arthur fight against each other in a war that lasts a hundred years.

Arthur looks on in poorly disguised glee as Francis' beloved maid is lead up to the stake. It was his arrow, after all, that unhorsed the girl at Compiègne and allowed her to be captured, shot from the very same longbow Arthur used to wound Francis at Agincourt.

And what luck! To be able to buy her from the Burgundians for less than it took to build his manor house in Yorkshire!

"Maybe if God is _really_ on your side," Arthur casually mentions, knowing full well he doesn't need to, "she will die of suffocation from the smoke and be spared the agony of burning."

He winks and smiles at Francis. "That is, if she isn't simply _assumed into Heaven first,_ hmm?"

It took four guards to hold Francis back once he realized Jeanne was lost to him forever. It doesn't take her long to die.

But Arthur never does anything by halves. "Burn her again."

_"What?!"_

"I want nothing left of her," Arthur informs the executioner. "Burn her again — two, three more times if you have to, then dump her ashes into the river. Make sure everyone here knows that she couldn't have escaped."

"You can't!" Francis shouts. "Hasn't she suffered enough?"

"Oh, _honestly,_ froggie, the people stopped caring about her ages ago, why should _you _still care?"

Arthur's eyes widen as an idea dawns on him.

"Ah, that must be it, then. What bothers you the most, Francis? That I have her blood on my hands, or that there is also some on yours? I will gladly take your share."

Arthur holds his arms out, palms up, and looks around at the crowd.

"Render unto Caesar what is Caesar's!" he happily shouts at them all. "Write it in all the books, on all the tapestries for evermore, for everyone to see! Come, _all_ ye faithful, and see how Arthur Kirkland clipped a saint's wings!"

He comes to rest a hand on Francis' shoulder and whispers into his ear: "There is no punishment great enough, I find, for heretics and witches."

"You are a hypocrite!" Francis screams, his voice breaking from the force of it. His fingers reach out and lace around Arthur's throat. "I know you still consult the runes! I _hate_ you, you hypocrite! _I hate you!"_

It takes five guards to hold him back, bringing him to his knees and binding his hands behind his back.

"Tut, tut," Arthur admonishes, fussily adjusting the collar of his doublet. "This is merely measure for measure, fire for fire, old friend, as is our wont. Consider this: Would that girl have died if the ocean hadn't brought me a whole fleet of Norman ships that fine autumn day, many, many years ago?"

Francis shakes his head. "You had no right to — "

"I had _every_ right!" Arthur roars, his eyes flashing. "Thou art become guilty in the blood that thou hast shed, and hast defiled thyself in the idols which thou hast made! Therefore have I made thee a reproach unto the heathen, and a mocking to _all_ nations!"

Francis imagines doing many things. He imagines slitting Arthur's throat right in front of his child king, his blood spraying all over little Henry's horrified face.

He imagines holding Arthur's head under water and counting how many times his body jerks before he is dead.

He imagines doing many things, but only spits in Arthur's face.

"You are going to be weighed on the scales," he darkly threatens, "and you will be found wanting."

Arthur wipes his face with the back of his hand. For a moment he remembers himself as he was, a little boy with wet sand on his face —

He smiles broadly at Francis, pulls his lips back and shows him all his teeth, before backhanding him.

"How _dare_ you speak to one such as I in that insolent manner!"

"Ah," Francis tiredly says, recognizing this defeat for what it is. "And with whom do I have the pleasure to speak?"

"To one who is strong, stronger, the strongest — now, and forever."

"Mark my words, Angleterre. You will carry this weight."

Arthur can hear the Seine rushing behind them, and thinks himself finally a ruler of the waters and their powers. But fame is the thirst of youth, and this is nothing, love — he still has the great destiny Harold prophesied ahead of him.

"Oh, I certainly hope so." He smiles, and there are those teeth again. "In fact, I'm counting on it."

.

**Author's notes (please feel free to skip):**

*I haven't read much fic with Norway in it, so I don't know what the popular fanon human names for him are. I just chose Erik for Erik the Red. As for Denmark, I know that Mathias is pretty much the go-to name for him but I've always kinda disliked it, mostly because it's too similar to Matthew. In my headcanon it's either gotta be Christian (for Hans Christian Andersen, and several Danish kings) or Søren (for Søren Kierkegaarde, who also had some wild blond hair). And so ends the most useless footnote ever.

*the Norman Invasion/Conquest/Not Good Times. There's so much going on there, and I tried to be as accurate as possible. I can't explain everything here in the notes (I did on the KM, however, if you'd like to check it out there), but you can Wiki it if you'd like to know more. : )

*The Harrying of the North. Rebels in the north of England are not pleased with William becoming king. He, in turn, is not pleased with their rebellion (understatement of the millennium) and brings his scorched earth policy along for the ride. Lots of people were either slaughtered or starved and the land was rendered useless for years. Even some of William's supporters were horrified by the cruelty of his actions.

*"A youth to whom was given so much of earth, so much of heaven, and such impetuous blood" from Wordsworth's _Ruth_

*"Knowing that nature never did betray the heart who loved her" from Wordsworth's _Tintern Abbey _(ironic considering his brother John, a sailor, died seven years later at sea)

*So Lord Byron seems to be most well-known today for his love poetry, but in my (rather humble) opinion those are actually his weakest poems. Dude was _amazing_ at describing loneliness and ostracization. From _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage:_  
—And Harold stands upon this place of skulls  
—Grieving, if aught inanimate ever grieves, over the unreturning brave  
—Heredity bondsmen! Know ye not, who would be free, themselves must strike the blow?  
—Ah! Happy years! Once more who would not be a boy?  
—War, war is still the cry, "War even to the knife!"  
—Fame is the thirst of youth  
—A ruler of the waters and their powers  
—Wherever we tread, 'tis haunted, holy ground  
—A thousand years scarce serve to form a state; an hour may lay it in the dust

*"Thou art become guilty in the blood that thou hast shed, and hast defiled thyself in the idols which thou hast made … Therefore have I made thee a reproach unto the heathen, and a mocking to all nations" Ezekiel 22:4

*"You have been weighed on the scales and found wanting" Daniel 5:27

*"Render therefore unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's, and unto God the things that are God's" Matthew 22:21

*Wanna hear something funny? I had always intended to include a throwaway line about child!Arthur liking apples — I don't know why, just one of those things that gets stuck in your head, I guess. And then I find out one day _completely by accident _that apples are the national fruit of England. And that apples are actually in the same plant family as roses! Mind = blown. (Robins are the national bird of the UK, and the Tudor rose has red and white petals.)

*Young boys worked as pages for about 7 years, could become a squire at 14, and could become a knight at 21 if they were lucky. I'm thinking the squires here are maybe 16, picking on (what they think) are a couple of 10 year olds?

*France's mom here is Mama Gaul.

*Joan of Arc. One of my heroes! My love and esteem for her only grow throughout the years. Although she was wounded a few times, an arrow unhorsing her at Compiègne is my own invention. Sources actually say somebody reached up and pulled her off her horse as she was following the rear of her army.


	10. Chapter 10

**London Bridge**

.

Chapter 10

In the ensuing silence, Francis, as ever, imagines many things.

He sees Arthur falling prostrate before him, kissing his shoes. The orchestra will swell, the church bells will ring, spring will come early, and all will be well as Arthur races to declare his everlasting love for his darling Alfred. _True love lives!_

…But he looks at Arthur sitting on the steps beside him, immobile but for the deliberate manner in which he draws breath and the deliberate manner in which he clenches and unclenches his fists, and Francis' imaginings turn more realistic: He vividly sees Arthur giving him the supreme thrashing of his life ("Not my face! _Not my face!")_ before hauling him by his hair, kicking and screaming, out of the church, that pirate's mouth Arthur never learned (or bothered) to clean cursing him straight into the next century all the while.

Discreetly, he puts a little more distance between himself and Arthur — he did swear an oath never to tell a living soul about that particular part of their childhoods, after all.

_But!_ Francis reasons, _but!_ There are only a few pages left in this chapter of _L'histoire de ma vie! _And for all his tragic Carmens and Camilles, Francis loves a happy ending more than almost anyone, but for every page Amérique turns forward, Angleterre stubbornly, almost mechanically, insists on turning three back.

"I'll ask you again. Why did you tell Alfred about that?"

For a man who has always cast such a long shadow, Arthur's voice sounds pitifully small.

"Oh, for the only reason I ever tell anyone anything — _because."_

Arthur looks at him then, and Francis feels a pang of guilt. Arthur's green eyes, regardless of any affected arrogance or boastful bravado, have always had a quietly honest way about them. The hurt in them now goes straight to Francis' heart, much as it did the very first time he ever saw those eyes, and he suddenly feels self-conscious, as though he's broken something, as though he's created a horrible mess.

Francis gives Arthur's shoulder a rough shove.

"Oh, do not give me that dejected, long-suffering look! I only told him because…" He pulls his knees to his chest, crossing his arms over them. "I told him because even when I have been angriest at you, I have never been able to forget that helpless little boy."

"I refuse to be that weak and pathetic ever again," Arthur declares.

Francis shakes his head. "Non. You do not see that you will _always_ be that brave boy I was so glad to have met, and you will _always_ be the strong, loyal ally."

He turns to look at Arthur.

"I told Amérique because I know who ordered all those little boats to help us escape from Dunkirk — it was the same endlessly irritating man who told his men they would bring up the rearguard so as to let _my_ men go first. You seldom show how kind you actually are, Angleterre — "

"What rubbish," Arthur scoffs, "I've never been _kind — "_

"And I know who was responsible for mending all my torn flags during the war whenever he found one — "

"It's not like my doing that made even the slightest bit of difference."

"You have no idea the difference it made, and to how many."

And there is that silence again, but Francis — never needing a reason or an invitation to speak — has always been good at breaking them.

"I told him because he needs to know the _real _reason you reject him. I think you think that if people knew how you really felt about them — and you _do_ care, and very much, though you try to hide it — they would use that against you, oui? Like I did?" He sighs. "Well, we've talked and fought and talked about _that._ But if you are not careful, mon ami, and if you are not honest, people will tire of this game of yours and quit playing, and then you will have no one to blame for your loneliness but yourself."

_I tried, idiot. I tried with everyone — with you, and Alfred, and — bloody hell. I can command a fourth of the entire world, but I cannot command myself half so well. Why do I keep trying? What has it ever gotten me? I've heard it said the very definition of stupidity is to continue doing the same things repeatedly, believing you'll see different results…_

"He loves you very much."

"I find that hard to believe," Arthur says, and thinks: _That anyone should form any sort of attachment to me is beyond ridiculous. There is nothing worth attaching oneself to._

Francis rubs his temples. "Mon Dieu, I am losing all patience with you!"

"Wouldn't be the first time, nor the last, I'm sure."

Francis drops his hands. "Have you ever known him to be a liar?" he implores, frustrated.

Arthur opens his mouth to speak, but stops.

Something is whispering in the back of his mind, something is tapping a restless finger against his shoulder — another ghost from his past, perhaps? That's the thing about ghosts, Arthur has realized: They are cowards who never dare show their face, never look you in the eye, yet you never can escape their hollow presence. The bastards _linger,_ crying out over the moors and shivering across the centuries.

He frowns, as he has never allowed himself to sink so low as to associate with cowards — or so he has always believed.

"Amérique wrote me a very interesting letter once."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "I'm a little old for stories, I should think."

"Nonsense! No one is ever too old for a good story!"

"Clearly," Arthur mutters, pointedly looking at him.

"I remember it well," Francis blithely begins as he stretches and crosses one long leg over the other. "It was a beautiful, _golden_ morning, and Jacques — no, that is not right." He thoughtfully taps his chin. "Who was my manservant after Jacques?"

"Olivier. And do be so good as to _get on with it."_

"Ah, oui, Olivier!" Francis cheers. "How could I have forgotten _him,_ the best manservant I ever had? When he brought me the post that day, he nearly buckled under the weight of that letter. It was the thickest letter in the history of my personal correspondence, and" — he chuckles and smiles playfully — "popular as I am, _that_ is saying something."

Arthur sighs and rises to his feet. "I have indulged you and your ridiculous flights of fancy long enough." He gives Francis a curt nod. "Good day."

"But, Angleterre!" Francis cries, half frantic and flinging out a dramatic arm as though to stop him. "You haven't let me finish my story!"

Arthur raises a dismissive hand without bothering to look behind him. "I won't allow myself to be subjected to your incessant babbling a moment longer."

"But the letter was about _you!"_

Arthur jolts to a stop. Moments pass before he turns and looks at Francis, who only smiles smugly.

"Ah, so now I have your full attention? Oui, his letter was all about you, and how I did not become physically ill after finishing it is still a mystery to me. It was shortly after you left for Canada with that writer of yours."

Francis leans forward and whispers loudly: "He wrote that he has just come back from wishing you bon voyage, so he _must_ have written it the very day you left, oui?"

The invitation of Francis' whisper lingers in the air; Arthur grabs hold and closes the space between them. "Go on. How — how long did you say the letter was?"

"I didn't," Francis grins. "Ten pages, front and back. I was a little surprised because I did not even know you were going over there, much less going to see him."

_This will not do. I do not like to be reminded how much I care for him. It will only make the inevitable that much harder to bear, and I have borne many things, but this — this is different._

Arthur crosses his arms. "I didn't go merely to see him."

"Oh, _please,_ Angleterre, do not shit a shitter," Francis says. His eyes always twinkle, but they are positively _blinding_ now. "You weren't stupid enough to think you could go on his own land without him noticing, were you? But I know you, and you never do anything without a plan, so what were you planning to do if you saw him? Run away?"

"I do not run away!" Arthur shouts, for the second time that day. He wonders how many more times he can say it — or shout it, as the case may be — before the words lose all meaning entirely.

"Honestly, I never saw what was so scandalous about that writer in the first place," Francis continues. "I was very fond of him. But if he really _did_ need a chaperone, you know you could have easily sent someone else. Your brother Patrick, perhaps — Oscar technically belonged to him, after all. But the fact is you did not. And that's…" Francis rests his cheek against his hand and smiles. "It's sweet, is what it is."

"I am not _sweet,"_ Arthur grumbles, "and I am not _kind._ Do you just not believe me, or are you completely ignoring me at this point?"

"The boy and I have always written to each other," Francis goes on, giving Arthur his answer, "but whenever I would ask him about you he would artfully avoid it. Not as obtuse as he looks, that one. And then this letter came, and he was bursting at the seams over you, couldn't contain himself. It was as though up until then he'd been sending me dull scratches on dull paper, and then suddenly he sent me a firecracker."

Arthur sits down on the steps next to Francis, his stiff posture in stark contrast to Francis' relaxed one.

"What did he say about me in the letter, exactly?"

Francis brings a hand to his ear. "Excusez-moi, what was that? I couldn't quite hear you."

"You know perfectly well what I said!" Arthur shouts, reaching over and pulling Francis' hair.

_"Why_ do you _treat_ me this way?!" Francis wails. "I am but Cupid's humble messenger!" He swats Arthur's hand away and reaches up to gently stroke his hair.

"Just for that, I won't go into great detail," he says, turning up his nose. "But know this: I played dumb when he recently confessed to me he loved you because I already knew — it was all there in that letter. You have always been his entire world, and he has always loved you. And if you don't believe me, you _stupid brat, _then you really _are_ doomed, and I don't know what else to tell you."

_I can argue against it all I want, but…is the honesty of Alfred's feelings becoming harder to deny, or am I merely wishing it so? I don't know what to think anymore! Should I continue to trust myself or should I start trusting that annoying, endearing oaf —_

There is that ghost fluttering against his memory again — that _something_ clawing and groaning in its effort to be remembered, that _something_ he cannot quite grasp.

"I told him about when we were young, mon ami — or _younger,_ I should say, for surely we are not old, are we? — because I hate to see him discouraged. It is the most depressing thing in the world. He knows you hesitate, oui, but he needs to understand it is never from a lack of affection."

Arthur says nothing. His eyes travel over his sublime abbey — a monument to a greatness he has never really perceived in himself, even during his ostentatious adolescence — as Francis's words drift away and resonate off the walls.

His gaze wanders down to the floor and, shifting his feet a little, he wonders: Who is it that lies in eternal slumber beneath him in this particular spot?

Gently, so gently — _if I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine_ — he lays his hand upon the stone floor.

Whoever may be resting beneath him, whether they be of the nobility or uncommonly common, he imagines they have their hand upturned to his as well. And it would be so easy, palm to palm as they are, for them to grab his wrist and drag him down into the earth, entombed forever alongside them.

But Arthur feels only resistance from the hand under his — a gentle refusal, a benign push toward the land of the living.

_Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much._

For a moment, Arthur finds he cannot breathe.

_My dear, dear people. I have done horrible things — things neither my past nor my status as a nation can justify. It all turned out to be nothing more than selfish, childish tantrums met with horrible consequences. I have been unworthy of you, and I thought that if I held on tightly to the sins of my past, I could pay a kind of penance for them every day. But you have never demanded that of me, and perhaps I've been too proud, too presumptuous. Who am I to tell you what you want, what you are to believe? I have raised you to be confident and intelligent, but I have never had enough faith in you to take you at your word, and for that I am most heartily sorry. I will never question you again._

That blasted ghost will not leave him be. What is it trying to tell him? What is it yearning to say?

_Alfred, Alfred. Everyone else has always kept their distance, so why shouldn't he? Who does he think he is? To come and barge in when everyone else has kept their distance…but is it time for me to start taking him at his word as well? What monstrous pride, for me to assume I know his own heart better than himself. For who am I to hand him excuse after excuse to stay away from me? Who am I to constantly question him? The dear boy can't tell a lie to save his life, and the person he says he wants is — is —_

"Frog?"

"Oui?"

Arthur leaps to his feet, the headache from this morning but a faint memory.

"I think it's high time I told you how I really feel about you."

"O-ho, this will be good, I can tell." Francis rises as well, dusting off his pants. "Come, let me hear it."

"You are useless and meddlesome."

Francis shrugs. "I prefer to think of myself as _caring_ and _well-intentioned."_

"You are not half as clever as you think you are, and your attempts at jokes entirely lack all humor."

"You do not think they are funny because they are mostly about _you."_

"You are utterly shameless and I am mortified whenever I am forced to associate with you."

"All is going according to my master plan, then."

"I have never met anyone so annoying in all my life."

Arthur leans forward and claps Francis' shoulders, the barest hint of a smile flickering over his face.

"Never change, frog."

Not often is Francis Bonnefoy rendered completely speechless, but as Arthur turns and dashes down the aisle, he laughes.

"You do not have to worry about that, mon ami!" he shouts after him. "I am as constant as the North Star!"

"More like the Morning Star!" Arthur yells back, glancing only briefly behind him.

* * *

For the first time in his life, the boy who ran from Rome, the Normans, the Old World — he runs _to_ something and not _away._

The ghosts of his past, that cadaverous mob, are still there, watching forlornly as he leaves them behind. They have always been able to guilt him into coming back to them, but _no,_ Arthur vows — not this time, and _never again._ He is more than ready to shed this spectral second skin of his.

He's not running from them — he's bidding them farewell forever. He's waving them back into the past where they belong, for he has a future to catch up to.

_The past is comfortable,_ he thinks, the in-out-in laboring of his lungs matching the left-right-left rhythm of his feet. _Comfortably stifling. And I am bloody well sick of being stifled._

_I have bested plague and pretenders, bombs and bayonets, revolutions and Richards, invaders and imbeciles. I am not a coward, and I'll be damned if I let any ghost best me._

He stumbles to a stop when he comes upon a group of young schoolgirls playing on a nearby patch of green. He watches with pink cheeks and bright eyes as they play their games and sing their songs, and gulps at the January air even as it pierces his lungs and rubs the back of his throat raw.

Two of the taller girls raise their arms and touch the tips of their fingers together.

"London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down," they sing, the others running beneath the arch of their arms. "London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady…"

Arthur turns and looks behind him, his heart following the Thames as it courses downstream, flows under Westminster Bridge, the Hungerford, the Waterloo, the Blackfriars.

"Build it up," the school girls sing. "Build it up…"

It's too far away for his eyes to see it, but he knows with every fiber of his being London Bridge is out there, still standing for all this ridiculous prattling on about falling down.

Always, this talk of falling down! Do they not know it is the sturdiest, most dependable and resilient bridge in all the country — in all the world, even? And even if this most worthy, most excellent structure _did_ fall, no one would leave it in such a state — it would most assuredly be built right back up again, exactly as the dear girls are singing, because —

Because —

_My sun sets to rise again._

Tears pool in Arthur's honest eyes.

How silly of him — for it has not been a ghost begging to be heard, but Browning! _Browning_ knocking at the gates this whole time, and as Arthur best remembers him — reminiscing in his favorite chair, frail fingers tangling in his white beard.

Arthur passes a hand over his eyes before taking off again, down a different path this time than the one he came. No time for reminiscing now, old boy — if he's not too late, and if Alfred will still have him, he's got a future to catch up to.

* * *

Arthur Kirkland has done nothing but bare his teeth his entire life. As he watches Alfred F. Jones sitting on a bench in the Hall's courtyard, reading a newspaper, he wonders if he has the courage to finally bare his heart.

Every minute or so, Alfred gives a flick to the newspaper and turns a page, unaware that behind him, Arthur stands on the brink.

He knows how to turn and walk away — he's good at that, he's done that for as long as he can remember. The road back is well-worn and littered with Arthur-shaped footprints; the path before him is fresh and untilled, and Arthur cannot see beyond a certain point in the distance.

But he thinks of how Alfred has always stood there with a smile on his handsome face, hand extended, waiting only for Arthur to reach out and take it — and too long has he ignored the gesture and thoughtlessly batted the hand away.

_I can't offer you much at the moment, Alfred, but please, take my hand. I swear to you it won't always be so empty, it won't always shake so badly. For as many times as you've offered me your strong, honest hand — please, take mine._

First one foot upon the virgin soil, then the other. He coughs lightly, and Alfred looks up.

"Oh, hey," Alfred breaths, folding the paper away but never taking his eyes away from Arthur's. "What's up?"

Arthur's mouth is dry and his heart feels both light and heavy in his chest. He takes a deep, shaky breath —

"You shouldn't sit like that," he admonishes, motioning toward Alfred's legs, crossed like a child's. "You'll ruin your suit and then no one will take what you have to say seriously at all."

Alfred's shoulders slouch and he gives Arthur a displeased look.

_"Seriously?"_ he asks. "Look, I know I screwed up — I know I _keep_ screwing up. I'm not doing this right at all. It's the most cliché thing _ever_ to corner someone in a broom closet, but — "

"Here," Arthur interrupts, thrusting one of two small objects wrapped with brown paper at him. "I — I picked this up for you."

Alfred looks at the object, then up at Arthur, and quirks an eyebrow. "What is it?"

"It's a _sandwich,_ what else would it be?" Arthur snaps, but immediately feels the harshness of it and winces.

He sits beside Alfred on the bench.

"I'm afraid I couldn't obtain one of those burgers you're so fond of, or any chips, but — well — " Without looking at Alfred, he thrusts the sandwich at him again. "No tomatoes, right? If you haven't already eaten, that is."

Alfred takes the sandwich and, biting his lip and fiddling with the brown paper, stares at it. (He will never tell Arthur he'd already had lunch with Matthew.) Soon enough his easy smile breaks upon his face.

"Thank you for thinking of me."

"Yes. Well."

They eat together in silence. When they are finished, Alfred balls up the sandwich wrappers and throws them into a nearby rubbish bin.

"So," he begins, tightly scrunching up his shoulders before letting them fall heavily back to their normal, relaxed position. "I'm gonna apologize now."

Arthur blinks. "Apologize? Whatever for?"

_Please don't let it be too late. Please don't let him change his mind now. I would deserve it, but…_

"It's just — I'm a fixer, okay?" Alfred runs a hand through his hair. "You know that. I see a problem and I want to fix it, no matter if it's mine or yours or whoever else's. If Saturn was missing one of its rings I'd probably try to find a way to help the poor guy out. But I'm starting to realize that I can't fix you."

He gasps and looks at Arthur with wide, worried eyes.

"Not that you need fixing!" he hastens to clarify, waving his hands. "You're perfect just the way you are! I just mean…aw, _hell. _I can't even apologize right."

He uncrosses his legs and stretches them out, slouching down in the bench a little. He stuffs his hands in his trouser pockets.

"Everyone laughs at me for calling myself the hero, but it's only 'cause I see how things are, and how they _could_ be, or how they _should_ be. So many things could be different and better, and I know I could fix the things that are broke — the things that are just plain _wrong,_ the things that are just aren't _right._ But…"

He shrugs and shyly glances at Arthur, gives him a sheepish grin. "I guess I can't fix people, huh? And that's what hurts the most, I think. I'm strong and I could be strong for _everyone,_ if they'd only just _let_ me."

"Alfred — "

"I know 'fix' ain't the right word. But I don't want to fix you 'cause I wanna be a hero. I want all your problems to be solved because I _love_ you. I just want you to laugh and smile like you used to, and…I want you to laugh and smile because of me. I want to make you happy because you make me happy. You always have, more than anyone."

He looks away, a determined, absurd pout on his face.

"But, I can't force people to do something. And I can't force you to feel that way about me. So…I won't bring it up anymore. Just forget about it, alright? I mean, I won't ever stop loving you — I haven't stopped in, what? Like, three and half centuries? But I won't bring it up anymore, so…you don't have to worry. I'll only be _boring_ and _professional_ from now on."

Arthur's hand jerks ever so slightly, unsure if he should reach out and touch Alfred or not.

"You needn't apologize, Alfred," he says, "it's I who owe you an apology."

"What?" Alfred exclaims. "No way! You haven't done anything!"

Arthur nods slowly. "Oh, but I have."

"No — "

"Listen to me." Arthur's voice is gentle. "I've been a right cad, Alfred. I've pushed you away when all I really wanted was — was — _well._ Suffice it to say, you're too generous to have put up with my behavior as long as you have."

He looks up at the grey sky and sighs. "I understand that smarmy frog told you a story about me when I was but a boy."

Alfred nods.

"I'd rather you not have heard that, to be honest."

"I promise I won't tell no one."

"Thank you. I hope it made you realize why I've never believed — do you understand now why I've always found it so difficult to — "

Arthur surprises himself by laughing.

"Do you know," he says around a lopsided, rather dumbfounded grin, "I'm finally starting to realize something, Alfred, after all these years. Though that little boy with the dirty face and the seaweed in his hair — that unwanted tagalong, that unlovable disappointment — will always be me, perhaps _I _need not always be that boy."

"I ain't never seen you that way," Alfred softly says. "To me you've always been…well, just really awesome, all around. The _best,_ even."

And just as Arthur could feel his heart overflowing the day Alfred ran to him and clung to his legs and changed everything with two simple words — _"You're here!"_ — he feels his heart overflowing now. The sea is his natural boundary, his most assured way of keeping people out — but Arthur knows that what began with Alfred so long ago will also end with Alfred today and tomorrow and all their tomorrows hereafter. The time has come to let the ocean around his heart roll away, taking with it all his fears, all his anxieties, all his guilt. Roll on, mighty ocean — it is time to let the walls around his heart be swept away, let the familiar fire churning in his belly finally be extinguished after roaring for so, so long.

"You are so — "

_Wonderful. So utterly and delightfully wonderful._

"Alfred, I — I _do_ care about you, very much. I — you don't know — can't _possibly_ know how much. And — "

_You have always meant the world to me, and you always will._

"Oh, _bollocks!"_ he suddenly shouts, frustrated, and it makes Alfred jump.

Arthur leaps up from the bench and begins pacing back and forth.

"Shit, fuck, damnation, and the lot of it!" he shouts again. "My people are the greatest authors and poets to ever put pen to paper, and yet their own nation cannot weave his _own_ words half so well!"

He's so close and he's come so far — farther than he's ever been, farther than he could have ever dreamed, farther than he's ever permitted himself to go. He's absolutely determined to let Alfred know how he feels, how he _has_ felt for the past God-only-knows how long but has never allowed himself to —

And then an idea dawns upon him, and he huffs out a short, disbelieving laugh.

_Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear…_

Why didn't he think of it sooner?

"I'm not a poet, Alfred, but if I were, I would tell you that — "

He closes his eyes as he begins to recite, his fists clenched at his sides.

"I would tell you that you _pierce_ my _soul._ I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but _never_ inconstant. For you alone I think and plan. Have you not seen this?"

Arthur slowly cracks one eye open, and sees Alfred staring at him, eyes wide and mouth open. He's as still as Arthur's ever seen him — is he still breathing?

Arthur's hands begin to shake, and before he completely loses his nerve, he closes his eyes again and swallows.

"Hear my soul speak," he continues, and it's easier this time because he knows he's gone too far to turn back now. "The very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly to your service. You mold my hopes, you fashion me within."

He chuckles softly and drops his head to his chest.

"I am two fools, I know, for loving and for saying so in whining poetry, but…in life's noisiest hour, there whispers still the ceaseless love of thee."

He takes a deep breath and, after a moment, finally lifts his head.

"Well," he begins after clearing his throat. "That is what I _would_ say if I were a poet, or an artist, or some such — which, as I said, I'm _not."_

Alfred finally blinks and a corner of his mouth turns upward.

"That sure sounded like poetry to me!" he says, full of wonder.

Arthur colors in embarrassment. "If you're just going to make fun of me — !"

"No, no!" Alfred says, holding up a hand. "It was all so pretty. It makes me feel special that you told me all that. Kinda warm and happy, too."

"Well." Arthur looks away and readjusts the cuffs of his pea coat, checks his tie. "I'm not completely heartless, despite my reputation. There are those I care about — "

_That is it, Angleterre! One day, I swear it, I will find a way to dig a secret tunnel from my house to yours, even if I have to dig it with my own two hands! That way I will be able to taunt you whenever I want — which is always, you uncultured brat!_

" — and those I want to protect — "

_Marie, did you happen to lose a hair ribbon? I found one that looks like yours._

" — and those that I — that I love."

_Artie, you know you're my favorite, right? I just think that what we have is something really special. Even Mr. Churchill agrees! I know there've been things we've had to work out, but I really think if we can make it through all that, we can make it through anything, and…hey, don't you roll your eyes like that!_

Alfred gets to his feet and, before Arthur realizes what he's doing, grabs him and pulls him almost desperately into a tight embrace.

Arthur's body freezes and his muscles tighten.

"Don't — Alfred — " he pleads, and it comes out choked.

Alfred holds him even tighter and says, fiercely: _"Yes."_

"Alfred, _please_ — I'm not any good at this — I cannot even tell you that I — how much I — but I do, Alfred, I _do,_ just give me time — "

"I know you do, Artie, and you know _I_ do — so, _so_ much. But for right now, just hug me back."

There's a drumming in Arthur's head then. So much of his identity is tangled with the tempo of war, the rhythm of campaign, the cadence of crusade, that he briefly wonders if it's another distant call to arms.

But no — his hands slowly wind around Alfred and clutch at him, fiercely hold on for dear life, and he realizes: It's the thrumming of his heart. It's beating with such an almighty, exquisite tenderness that it nearly undoes him completely, but it's a call he joyously answers and marches to without hesitation.

* * *

Arthur pulls away first, putting a respectable distance between them.

"Look, everyone's going back inside," he says, looking around them. "The lunch break must be over."

"Yeah, guess so. But — say, Artie?"

"Mmm?"

"When the meeting's over and done with, and if you're not busy, do you…well, do you wanna hang out? Spend the rest of the day together, I mean. We _could_ go do something, but…it might be nice just to go back to your place and relax."

"What," Arthur chuckles, "and have you subjected to the dreariness of all my old books and the dullness of all my old maps?"

Alfred smiles and takes Arthur's hand.

"Pretty much."

But Alfred quickly turns and sneezes into his shoulder.

"And your fireplace, too," he sniffles.

Arthur looks down at their hands, and wonders how much of their shared trembling is strictly from the chill. "That sounds brilliant."

It's not much, but Arthur gives Alfred's hand a gentle squeeze.

Alfred can tell Arthur is happy; for once, it shows on his face plain as day, and that is more than enough.

It is a beginning.

.

**Author's notes (please feel free to skip):**

*Bizet's opera _Carmen_

*_The Lady of the Camellias_ by Alexandre Dumas (fils), sometimes shortened to _Camille_

*The North Star has been used by navigators since antiquity because it appears to stand motionless in the sky; all the other stars seem to rotate around it. The terminology of the Morning Star is complicated (at least for me!), but it is often associated with the name Lucifer. Easy to see then why Arthur would equate it with Francis. XD

*The two Richards are Richard II and Richard III, generally regarded as two of England's worst kings. Though I do have this weird soft spot for Richard II. _(look at my life, look at my choices)_

*Don't worry, Shakespeare! You'll get your endin'! (Once the Duke gets _his…end…in…)_  
—"If I profane with my unworthiest hand" and "good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much" from _Romeo and Juliet_  
—"knocking at the gates" is a reference to _Macbeth_  
—"Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear" from _Venus and Adonis_  
—"Hear my soul speak: The very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly to your service" from _The Tempest_

*"crying out over the moors" — a reference to Emily Bronte's _Wuthering Heights_

*"My sun sets to rise again" from Robert Browning's _"At the 'Mermaid'"_

*"You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. For you alone I think and plan. Have you not seen this?" from Jane Austen's _Persuasion_

*"You mold my hopes, you fashion me within" and "in life's noisiest hour, there whispers still the ceaseless love of thee" from Samuel Taylor Coleridge's _The Presence of Love_

*"I am two fools, I know, for loving, and for saying so in whining poetry" from John Donne's _The Triple Fool_


	11. Epilogue

**London Bridge**

.

Epilogue

_August, 1947_

A year and a half later, and the man who so adamantly swore he disliked change finds himself a very changed man.

Formerly the Dreadnought, the Scourge of the _Sundance_ — eternally Arthur Kirkland, Albion without end — and to a much beloved one, simply Artie — this man contently sips his champagne in the grand ballroom of the New York City Plaza Hotel and muses that for as much as things change, many remain the same.

They are all still wary of Ivan, for example, and have drawn up treaties and doctrines against him behind their side of the iron curtain (all without his knowledge, of course). Though the war is over, atrocities still occur on a small scale: The murder of the Black Dahlia in California shocked them all — even Arthur, who has seen his fair share of Glasgow smiles. The Thames even flooded again.

Much of Europe remains in ruins, but Arthur is cautiously hopeful about the future.

(A changed man, indeed.)

And Arthur couldn't tell you, if you asked, where this feeling of hopefulness came from, exactly, but all the other nations seem to feel it as well — and none of them feel it more strongly than tonight, for tonight is the restoration of the annual Waterloo Ball.

This storied gathering dates back to 1815, where it was first held among the nations of the Seventh Coalition to celebrate the final downfall of Napoleon. Since then it has evolved into a grand gala event where nations from every continent, regardless of bad blood, gather for one carefree night out of the year.

This is only Alfred's second time hosting the ball. Before the band strikes up the first song of the night, he takes the stage, microphone in hand.

"So," he begins, the spotlight falling upon him, "I know what some of y'all might be thinking: Is this even at all appropriate? I mean, this is the first time since the war we've had the ball, and a lot of us have more important things on our minds tonight besides just champagne. For many of us, our people are back home rebuilding the ruins left over from the war. But we're nations — we've _always_ got a lot on our minds, _all_ the time, and I think we deserve one night off. So, at least for tonight, please don't feel guilty about having a good time."

Alfred peers out into the crowd, shielding his eyes with his hand. "Say, where's Feliks?"

Feliks waves both his arms in the air, and when the spotlight finds him, he strikes a pose.

Alfred waves to him. "Hey buddy! Now, he probably won't like me saying this, but he's got dirt under his fingernails — and we all know how Feliks is about his nails, right?"

Feliks shrugs, unfazed and completely unapologetic, and the nations laugh.

"The point is," Alfred continues, "he's been workin' his tail off helping his people rebuild his capital, just like so many of the rest of you. And that's the most admirable, heroic thing in the whole world. So let tonight be a night of fun and relaxation, of catching up, but also a reminder: We've got so many great things to look forward to. When Feliks and his people are done, Warsaw is going to be the most beautiful it's ever been. The United Nations seems to be off to a great start. Marshall has a plan, and I promise, it's a good one. If you like baseball — and let's be real here, who doesn't? — Jackie Robinson signed with the Dodgers, so it's gonna be a great season. One of Arthur's princesses is engaged, and I know he's super excited about that. And, ladies, can I just say you all look amazing tonight? Francis, please thank Mr. Dior personally for me, because — "

Alfred giddily roll his eyes and grins. _"Gosh."_

The crowd laughs.

"Well, anyway," Alfred says, blushing and raising a hand to the back of his head, "the sooner I stop talking, the sooner we can all get to drinkin' and dancin' and laughin'."

He flings out one of his arms, and, perfectly on cue, the band's drummer crashes the symbols. The crowd erupts into cheers.

"So!" Alfred shouts. "I hereby declare the Waterloo Ball of 1947 a _go!"_

Alfred smiles as his eyes find Arthur in the crowd.

"Find somebody you love and ask 'em to dance — and if they say no, tell 'em America said so."

The band begins playing the familiar strains of "Autumn in New York," and Alfred hops off the stage, making his way through the crowd toward Arthur.

And Arthur watches, his heart turning violently in his chest all the while. (Some things never change.)

* * *

"All I am asking, mon petit lapin," Francis says, coming up to Arthur after Alfred has gone off to mingle, "is for a simple name change. Why not the Braggart Ball? Or Bastards on Parade?" He turns up his nose. "Anything but _Waterloo."_

"Because, you easily offended simpleton," an amiably arrogant Arthur says after taking a sip of champagne. "Nations are creatures of habit."

"Some more than others," Francis mutters, eyeing Arthur up and down. He motions toward his crooked tie. "Is this Amérique's influence?"

Arthur glances down at his tie and considers.

Alfred's influence on him recently has been considerable, and entirely welcome. Alfred reminds him to eat, no matter if they are an entire ocean and eight hours apart or in the same room together, and his face has become fuller, his pale cheeks blooming into a creamier color. A few faint laugh lines around his mouth are proof not only of his smiling more, but also Alfred's ability to make him laugh like no one else can, and only sometimes in spite of himself. He sleeps better at night, his guilt over the Great War having lessoned and taking with it his nightmares — a sentimental part of him wonders if Alfred's partly responsible for that as well.

(He's not — that is entirely Arthur's own resilient doing.)

Francis reaches over and straightens Arthur's tie. "I will assume from the stupid grin on your face that it is."

He finishes, leaving the tie a little tighter and a little more uncomfortable around Arthur's throat than when he first saw it.

"But please," Francis implores, "I ask you to compose yourself, you besotted puppy. There are _children_ present."

Arthur furrows his brow in confusion and glances around. "Are there?"

"I have seen a little boy with eyebrows much like yours running around, but I did not ask any questions. But, back to our star-spangled bandit — for that is what he is, oui? For stealing your heart?"

Arthur groans, rolling his eyes at the choice of words, and Francis grins at him.

"Where did he take himself and the stars in his eyes off to?" he continues. Then, pointing out into the crowd: "Ah, _there_ he is — talking with Antonio and the Benelux siblings. Though it is very odd to see them all together without Lovino."

Lovino would not attend the ball without Feliciano; Feliciano would not attend the ball without Ludwig, who would not attend for personal reasons.

Francis wanders off, and as he finishes his champagne, Arthur wonders when any of them will see or hear from Ludwig again. He can't imagine he'll find his answer ten years from now, in Buenos Aires, or that he himself will cut through the stunned, whispering crowd to shake Ludwig's hand in both his own, welcoming him back with a genuine smile.

And Kiku, far too ill to attend the ball this year, makes his reappearance the year after Ludwig, in Nairobi. Alfred will rush through the crowd and envelop him in a tight embrace.

But again: Arthur cannot know all this now, in 1947, and so contents himself with listening to the band.

* * *

"Arthur?"

He turns and finds Marie standing before him, lovely as ever, but with a nervous expression on her face.

"Arthur — I owe you the biggest apology in the world."

His eyebrows shoot up in honest surprise. "My dear girl, whatever can you mean?"

"Well, I have a confession to make." She fidgets with her gloved hands. "You remember the night we all signed the Treaty of London, right?"

He nods.

"Oh, that's a stupid question, now, isn't it?" She laughs. "Of _course_ you'd remember. And then there was dancing afterward? But…you see…" She glances down toward the floor. "I had always thought we'd danced together that night, but I was talking with my brothers just now, and they told me that you were with _them_ the whole night, talking with the diplomats."

She lifts her eyes up to meet his, and she looks heartbroken.

"Arthur, is that true?"

"I — " He blinks. "Yes."

She shakes her head in disbelief, raising her hands and then dropping them heavily so they slap against her skirt. "I don't think I have words enough to adequately express how embarrassed I am. I could've _sworn_ — but, no. No more of that. I'm here to finally set things right."

She smiles and holds out her hand to him as the band begins a slow song behind them.

"I'm about a hundred years late," she says, her lovely eyes glittering, "but will you dance with me?"

Arthur's face turns a bright shade of pink and, to his dismay, he finds he can only stare at her.

"Oh — oh, I see," she says at length, and brings her empty hand up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. "I'm so sorry, Arthur, I won't bring it up again. Please believe me — I never, _ever_ meant to — "

He takes her hand and threads it through the crook of his arm.

"You are mistaken, madam," he says, smiling and gently squeezing her hand. "You have nothing to apologize for. Though I must confess I won't be satisfied unless you promise to do me the honor of at least three dances tonight."

* * *

Francis saunters up to Alfred.

"I saw what you did there."

"Hmm?" Alfred turns his head slightly but doesn't take his eyes off Arthur and Marie. "What? What did I do?"

"Bringing up that night, and then making the band play a slow song." Francis smiles and shakes his head, whilst bringing an elbow to rest on Alfred's shoulder. "I suppose I will have to start asking _you_ for lessons now, oui?"

Alfred says nothing, but his proud, beaming smile easily gives him away.

"Now, Amérique — dear, _dear_ Amérique — can I persuade you to help me get the name of this fabulous soiree changed to something a little less — "

"Not a chance, Francey-pants."

* * *

A little later, Alfred and Arthur sit together at one of the tables, their chairs separated by only the smallest of spaces.

"What_ev_er!" Alfred good-naturedly cries, playfully slamming a hand against the table. "They _do_ exist, and I can prove it!"

Arthur scoffs and shakes his head.

"Tell me, are they little green men or little grey men?"

"You laugh _now…"_

"I'll believe it when I see it."

Alfred huffs and pouts, turning his attention back to the revelers.

Arthur looks at Alfred then — _really_ looks at him, studies his face, falls a little more in love with the curve of his jaw, the sweep of his eyelashes, the lingering scent of his hair.

"Why me?"

Alfred snaps his head around. "What?"

"I said, why me? Out of all the nations in the world, why did you choose me?"

"Aw, come on, Arthur," Alfred says, adjusting his glasses and looking away. "Don't do that. It's always been you, you know that."

"Indulge me."

"Well…" Alfred hooks an arm around the back of Arthur's chair and twists in his chair, closing the space between them. "I don't think I _picked_ you, so much. I think we were kinda just destined to be together."

"You picked me over the frog."

Alfred grins. "Well, yeah, okay — I'll give you that. But what I really mean is…it wasn't ever a choice for me. It was more like, _hey, here's how things are gonna be from now on,_ and that was that. I remember thinking, when I was little — are ya ready for a flashback?"

"I suppose, if I must be."

"I remember being really lonely when I was little, and thinking that _something_ must have been waiting just around the corner for me. I remember thinking, _It can't be this way forever, it just can't._ I had Matt, sure, but he lived so far away, and my people didn't want me because I didn't look like them — I looked like Sweden and Finland and the Netherlands. I think they knew what was happening and they sure didn't want nothin' to do with me after that."

He grasps Arthur's hand and leans in close, nuzzles his cheek.

"But then _you_ came, and you were just what I was waiting for — what I was hoping for. You were _totally_ worth the wait, and I'd wait for you again and again if I had to."

Arthur revels in the feel of Alfred's skin next to his, and finds he has no desire to ever pull away, Victorian propriety be damned.

"I did make you wait again, though," Arthur says, his voice a little sad and reproachful, but especially so against the electric buzz of the festivities continuing around them, "and I was exceedingly rude to you after that. I'm sorry — truly."

"Nah, no need to apologize!" Alfred chirps, pulling away. Arthur immediately feels the loss of him, the warmth of his skin evaporating into a cool memory.

"That's the thing about destiny, I think. If it were up to us, nothing would get done right because we'd screw it up. But fate comes along and says, _No, this won't do,_ and gives us second and third chances, because some things" — Alfred lifts their hands and kisses Arthur's knuckles — "are just meant to be."

And there goes Arthur's heart again, bucking wildly against his ribcage.

"Alfred."

"Yeah?"

"Come here."

They lean in towards each other, Arthur's cheek brushing Alfred's, and Arthur whispers in his ear the words he has always, _always_ felt, always known to be true, but could never bring himself to say.

And it would be so easy to hide behind the words of his poets, but this time their words simply will not do. The only words Arthur gives Alfred are his own, and they're not much compared to the greats, but they're honest, and they're _his_ —and now that he's said them, they are blessed, and will forever belong to Alfred.

Alfred leans back and stares, his eyes wide.

"Really?"

Arthur nods.

"For real?"

Again, Arthur nods.

Alfred's eyes light up, and he jumps up from his chair, tugging Arthur's hand. "Come on!"

"Wait — Alfred — where are we going?"

Alfred drags Arthur all around the ballroom then, coming up to and addressing random groups of nations.

" 'Scuse me, folks, make way, I've got a lovesick fool here," he says in a serious tone of voice to one group, and then to another: "It's a terminal case of Head Over Heels, with no hope for a cure, I'm afraid. Don't get too close or you might catch it."

Arthur protests as Alfred drags him through the crowd ("This is completely undignified, you release me _this instant!"),_ but only half-heartedly.

* * *

Francis is carrying two flutes of champagne — one for Carlotta, one for Angelique — when he notices two shadows behind one of the curtained pillars. Always curious, he stops to watch.

One shadow seems to be quite worked up about something, though the other — owner of a tell-tale cowlick — seems to be taking the admonishment in stride. Eventually the angry shadow gives up and, grabbing the other's tie, pulls him in for a kiss.

(Francis cannot know that he has stumbled upon one of those secret embraces Alfred once promised Arthur.)

All good stories deserve a good ending, and perhaps this story's ending was written years ago. Francis knows this would be a lovely end to the chapter, if it weren't for the fact that it's actually the beginning of another. He chuckles to himself, for he knows the best endings are not the ones we find in novels or films, but the ones we live.

And how satisfying to know others agree with him.

* * *

"Some things never change," Arthur hisses after pulling Alfred behind the pillar, shortly before his shadow brings Alfred's in for a kiss. "You are _beyond _annoying."

"I know," Alfred admits, as though it were a compliment.

"An endearing, impossibly delightful, inexplicably-charming-despite-your-many-faults _git."_

"I know."

The band strikes up a new song.

"Hey! That's our song!"

"You say that about every song." Arthur looks away. "I meant what I said, though. I_ do_ love you, Alfred, completely and unendingly. And — no matter how bad I am at this — please know that will _never_ change — no matter how harsh I am with you or how much I may seem to pull away. Much as I love you, old habits die hard, I'm afraid."

"Aw, Artie, you ain't bad at this. You're awesome at it." Alfred wraps his arms around Arthur's waist. "I mean, _I'm_ happy, so you must be doing somethin' right, right?"

Arthur narrows his eyes at Alfred for a moment before smiling ever so slightly.

"Well, then," he says, his voice husky. "Enough talk."

He pulls Alfred to him by his tie then, their lips crashing together sweetly — not for the first time, and certainly not the last for these two, the hope of each other's existence — fated across oceans, wars, years.

In each other's arms, as in nowhere else, there has always been, and will always be, room enough.

.

_The End_

.

**Author's notes (please feel free to skip):**

*Monaco = Carlotta, Seychelles = Angelique

*The grand ballroom of the NYC Plaza hotel is lovely, and you can find a picture of it on their Web site.

*The previous handful of chapters all took place during January of 1946, while the epilogue takes place during August of 1947. Here's what happened during that year and half:  
—Churchill's "Iron Curtain" speech, March 1946  
—The Black Dahlia murder, January 1947  
—Prussia officially ceases to exist as a country, February 1947  
—Christian Dior's "New Look", February 1947  
—After a really, really bad winter, the Thames flooded in March of 1947  
—Jackie Robinson signs with the Brooklyn Dodgers and plays his first major league game, April 1947  
—U.S. Secretary of State George Marshall first outlined the Marshall Plan during a speech in June 1947  
—UFOs at Roswell, July 1947  
—The future Elizabeth II announces her engagement to Prince Philip, July 1947 (they get married in Westminster Abbey that November)

*Napoleon was beat by the Seventh Coalition (basically any European nation that wasn't France or part of the First French Empire) at Waterloo, in Belgium, in June of 1815. The name of the ball and Francis' repeated requests to change it were inspired by a BBC news article I read that was first published in 1998: _A French politician has written to UK Prime Minister Tony Blair demanding that he changes the name of Waterloo Station. __Florent Longuepée says it is upsetting for the French to be reminded of Napoleon's defeat when they arrive in London by Eurostar. Waterloo station, which celebrates the Duke of Wellington's victory in 1815 over the French Emperor Napoleon, is the gateway to London for Eurostar passengers arriving from Paris._

*85% of Warsaw was destroyed during the Second World War, but the goal was to erase it off the map completely

*Sealand didn't proclaim sovereignty until the '60s, but still.

So here it is, the end of my little love letter to Arthur Kirkland and his amazing history of literature. I hope you enjoyed! Please take care and keep in touch. Your support to me while I was writing this (on the KM as well as posting the final, copy-edited version here) has meant the absolute world to me. I cannot thank you guys enough. Thank you again from the bottom of my heart!


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